


The Amateurs

by FaunTK



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Citizen!Jean, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Sex, Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Relationship(s), Reporter!Armin, Reporter!Eren, Superhero!Marco, superhero au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5937760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaunTK/pseuds/FaunTK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the city of Trost, no street is safe from the battle between heroism and villainy, good and evil, law and crime, right and wrong. For every supervillain there's a dozen thugs, and for every superhero there's a dozen wannabe capes. </p><p>But when one of those amateurs saves Jean from a mugging, Jean finds himself pulled into a world where none of those lines are clear and all of them become personal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check my profile for status updates =)

When Jean pushes the office building’s front doors open, the muggy smog of the night air hits him in the face like a wet, dirty rag. King’s Row is the gas station urinal of Trost, and thirty years ago the janitor quit. Pieces of trash roll across the cracked pavement sidewalks that could break a person’s ankle, and if you ever asked the lawyers of Jean’s building, it’s a million dollar payday. Street thugs wander in broad daylight, while the organized gangs patrol their territory after dark. The trees, what few can survive, are a kind of color that Jean is sure isn’t natural. For every dilapidated factory inhabited by a superpowered street group, there’s a rundown apartment with a slum lord living on Peregrine Island. As he takes a deep breath of existential resignation, his lungs are burned by an air tainted with any number of questionable chemicals. But he’s used to it by now, and doesn’t even notice it.

Jean can feel the eye strain like a needle through his corneas. He works an eight to five job in the office building as an IT security specialist and support technician. It’s a glorified way of babysitting office drones who don’t know that “password” isn’t a clever password, and will get the shit hacked out of their law firms. A quick fast food dinner and he’s back in the building, helping his mother with her cleaning job. She helped him stay in school, he helped her through the divorce. She got him his job by knowing one of the lawyers, he helps her with the cleaning job, just like he did in college. That’s the deal he’s made up in his head to justify time spent scrubbing toilets, because he will _not_ admit it’s an act of love.

She offers him a ride each day after he walks her through the parking garage, but he turns her down each time. Exercise is what he tells her, but it’s stubborn pride – the same reason he moved out. His apartment is four blocks away, and street smarts keep him safe each night as he walks back.

The first rule of street smarts is that you don’t walk down a dark alley in King’s Row at night. That's what’s ringing in his head when then bigger of the two thugs slams him into the greasy brick of the building. _Fuck_  Old Lady Hood, the drug addict who hangs out on the stairs of his building, who he tried to avoid by going in the back door.

“Cough up the wallet and this goes smooth,” the thug says. When the thug’s hand gets a little too close to more than just his wallet, it’s a reflex that he tries to shift away. The thug spins him around and slams the butt of his pistol into Jean’s cheek, sending him slumping down to the pavement. A foot slams his side. Jean is winded, but doesn’t feel the rib break, which is all that matters.

“Fine,” Jean says with a wheeze and groan as he reaches in his pocket. The pistol cocks and is on the back of his head. Jean knows it’s a power trip, it’s not the first time he’s been mugged. His body doesn’t care. His body is ready to piss his pants, his arms trembling, a sob of frustration bubbling out of his throat.

“It could have gone smooth,” the thug says. “Flip your pockets.” Jean does so, his cell phone rattling onto the pavement alongside his keys. His fingers are shaking as he claws at the dirty concrete, gulping for air as the fear takes over. When the thug reaches down to pick up Jean's phone, something heavy thuds onto the concrete behind them. The next thing Jean knows, the thug is flailing in the air, lifted up from behind by his jacket.

“Is this man bothering you?” Jean looks up and sees a man twice the size of the thug lifting him into the air like a grocery bag. His rescuer is massive from Jean’s view on the ground, wearing heavy blue jeans, steel-toed boots, a plain sweatshirt, and a mask that covers the top of his head and upper half of his face. Freckles shadow his cheeks, his eyes a soft brown like hot chocolate, and his jaw is strong and sharp. He’s clearly a small time, if not amateur, hero. He’s one of hundreds in Trost, a city with a handful of big league heroes, a small force of competent ones, and five complete idiots in tights for every one of the decent ones.  But with his vision still swimming from the pistol whip, it isn’t the time for being picky.

Jean can’t answer the question before the thug fires three shots from his pistol as he flails. Two of them hit the brick of the apartment building, but the third sinks into the hero’s leg with a fleshy thud. Jean expects a scream and for the mugger to be dropped, for the entire rescue to fall apart, for both Jean and the wannabe hero to die then and there. Instead, the hero shakes the thug until the gun falls from his hand. He gives a small smile, like a parent to a mildly disobedient child. The hero kicks the gun away before the second thug can grab it. The second thug doesn’t even try, he's already running away. The first yells after him, threatens to kick his ass for leaving him there.

“Can you stand up?” the hero asks Jean. Jean nods and struggles to his feet, wobbling a bit. The hero has a look of concern, but Jean is more stubborn than he is dizzy. Jean is more stubborn than most other things. “I have some rope in my backpack.”

Jean can’t help the snort. A dark blue, worn backpack with black trim. How professional. Jean unzips it and pulls out the rope, noticing a medical kit, emergency radio, and spare mask also in the bag. The thug struggles, but the hero has no trouble holding him with one hand. “You should call the police,” the hero says.

“Can’t you fly him in?” Jean asks, shaking from the adrenaline rush and _not_ because he’s scared.

“I’m… not licensed,” the hero says, rubbing his neck as he looks away with a sheepish grin.

“Of course you aren’t,” Jean says, harsher than he means for it to be. He catches the flash of surprise and slight hurt that crosses the hero’s face. The smile fades just slightly, forced on his face now.

“They can take him in. You should stay safe. No more alleyways,” he says.

“Hey, look, I’m—” Jean starts to say, but the hero is flying away before he can say he’s sorry, or even thank him. Jean looks down at the thug, who’s struggling against the well-wrapped rope. Jean kicks him hard in the jaw before he dials 911.

 

* * *

  

After the cops have come and gone, after the adrenaline has crashed and the long day’s toll is fully felt on his body, his ribs and cheek down to a dull throb with some aspirin, Jean cracks open his computer, immediately typing “Trost apartments” into the search bar, because now it’s well past the limit of acceptable muggings for a single apartment. He picks up his scuffed cell phone and calls the one person who he knows won’t fuss about his wellbeing, but instead will help him actually apartment hunt.

“Hello?” Eren has a mouthful of something when he answers, and from the crunching that comes through like static over the line it’s a handful of chips or pretzels.

“Swallow, you fucking idiot.”

“Funny, you used those exact words when we—”

“I got mugged again, help me find an apartment.” Jean has four browser windows open, each with tabs already full of apartments in different price ranges and locations.

“Damn, man, sorry. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Jean says, “Just pistolwhipped.”

 “Did you punch him?” Eren asks.

“No, I—“

“Pussy.”

“Fuck you,” Jean says, ripping the phone away from his face to hang up, but decides he would be too lazy to redial. “Some hero got there first.”

“Yeah?” He can hear Eren typing in the background.

“Well, amateur.” It suddenly dawns on Jean that the man was shot. He knows he was shot. He heard the bullet hit his flesh and saw the hole in his jeans. The guilt of how he treated the man washes back over him. Eren’s chewing brings him back. “I’m serious, if you don’t fucking swallow that and stop eating I’ll take the tram over there just to beat the living shit out of you.”

“Sounds like you don’t even have the balls to beat yourself off… there’s one here for $550.”

“I could swing that,” Jean says, knowing that with student loans and helping his mom with her rent that it would mean ramen three nights a week. But if he saves money from no longer being mugged, then maybe… “Email it to me?” The link pops up in seconds. “How’s Armin? You two doing okay?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?” Eren asks.

“No reason,” Jean says, rolling his eyes at how oblivious Eren can be.

 

* * *

  

The concept of adequacy is fluid and highly dependent on context, and it was in the context of a swollen cheek and throbbing left ribs that the apartment somehow met the definition. A top floor apartment in a four story building with creaky floors, wallpaper from the early 90s, a highway on one side of the building and a Mexican restaurant on the other… but, in the context, it was adequate. The neighborhood was safer – he checked the crime report statistics during work – compared to the others in the price range, the landlady was a kind woman in her 70s, and being so close to the interstate made the commute almost as easy as walking had been.

And so a day later Connie and Eren are helping Jean haul boxes and furniture into and out of an elevator that Jean isn’t completely sure is up for the task. His new apartment is the second to last from the end of the hallway, giving Eren plenty of time each trip to bitch and moan about how Jean’s poor taste in apartments is an inconvenience to his precious time and effort.

“Suck it up and lift from your knees, Yaeger,” Jean says.

“That’s what your mom said,” Eren says, out of breath. Jean shoves into his end of the couch as hard as he can, sending Eren flying back. “Hey, I’m fucking helping you!”

“Best I remember, it was this or helping Armin edit his interview with the recycling center guy. This has beer at the end, so get off your ass and carry something,” Jean says. The promise of beer gets Eren back onto his feet, but not without a hard punch to Jean’s shoulder the next time Eren passes by him.

After a day of Eren’s terrible driving on the highway, unloading the furniture from Eren’s truck, and rides up the sketchiest elevator in the city, Jean has his legs draped over the side of the lounge chair while Eren is sprawled out on the couch, his feet in Connie’s lap. There’s light from two lamps that are sitting on the floor next to an almost-empty box of beer, split mostly between Jean and Eren, with Connie nursing half a can. Jean is pleasantly numb from the throbbing pain in his ribs after a long day. He’s just past buzzed but a hair shy of tipsy. Stacks of cardboard boxes surround them, and Jean can’t summon a single fuck to give about unpacking tonight.

“Your face looks like shit,” Eren says.

“Still better than yours ever has,” Jean says.

“Did you get it checked?” Connie asks. Jean huffs.

“Yes, Mom. It’s just bruised, nothing broken.”

“Sounds like that guy got there just in time, then,” Connie says.

“I’d have kicked his ass,” Eren says.

“You aren’t supposed to fight back,” Connie says, and he gives Jean a look.

“I didn’t,” Jean says.

“Pussy,” Eren says. Jean throws the empty can at Eren, but with his compromised level of sobriety it’s nowhere close.

“I didn’t thank him,” Jean says after a few seconds, frowning. Eren snorts.

“You really are an asshole,” Eren says with a grin. When Jean doesn’t take the bait, Eren sits up with a slight wobble. “It happens. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“Yeah,” Jean says, unconvinced. A silence hangs, exacerbated by the lack of T.V. and punctuated by the trucks passing on the nearby highway.

“Jean,” Eren says as he stands up, putting a hand out for balance and walking over next to him. “I’m only saying this because I’m drunk—”

“Lightweight,” Connie says, smirking. “I thought the infamous Eren Yaeger could down a bottle of vodka and still run a half mile.” Connie groans and keels over against the lounge chair as Eren gives him an elbow to the gut.

“ _Because I’m drunk_ , I’ll say this. You’re a sarcastic ass.”

“Gee, thanks,” Jean says, sinking lower in the chair.

“You’re a sarcastic ass because you’re a cool guy deep down and you’re scared to get hurt. It’s a reflex, like the way Armin starts to sound like the Pillsbury Doughboy during awkward situations. You’re also a stubborn piece of shit who won’t cut yourself any slack.” Eren puts his fist and against Jean’s cheek and pushes with a gentle punch. “Lighten up or I’ll kick your ass.”

“So is your being a dumbass a reflex?” Jean asks.

“See?” Eren says with a grin. “Sarcasm in the face of a compliment.” Jean furrows his brows.

“In his defense,” Connie says, “only you would compliment someone by calling them a sarcastic ass, Eren.”

“Twice. He said it twice,” Jean says with a small smile at Eren. “But thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m drunk. Remember? Like I’d ever give your stupid horse face a compliment while sober.”

Jean gives a small laugh, “Right.” He _accidentally_ shifts his head to the side, hard, catching Eren in the crotch with the crown of his head. It’s a slower reaction from the beer, but Eren grabs himself and whines as he drops to his knees.

“Fucking hell, you piece of shit,” he says, winded. Connie nearly chokes and drops his beer can as he keels over, laughing.

 

* * *

  

With Eren half asleep by the end of the night, Connie takes care of driving him home. Jean is too comfortable draped over the lounge chair to move, and falls asleep as soon as they leave. When he drifts awake a few hours later, it’s to the sound of clanging outside his door. It’s in that moment Jean realizes his front door isn’t locked. Grabbing the nearest thing to him – one of the lamps – he creeps up to his door. Peeking out through the eyehole, he sees a man dressed in a sweatshirt, carrying a bag, struggling with the door to the roof. In a moment of half-awake, liquid-fueled courage, Jean whips the door open and rushes forward, slamming the lamp down at the base of the man’s neck.

The man turns his head, surprised, completely unfazed.

Jean freezes. The man smiles and lets out a tired chuckle.

“You must be the new neighbor.” His voice is warm, soft, and familiar. Freckles on his cheeks, eyes like hot chocolate, and a strong jaw. “Would you mind helping me? I got my bag stuck in the door.” Jean looks down and sees the door closed on one of the straps of the man’s backpack. A familiar, worn backpack, dark blue with black trim.

“You’re—”

“Marco,” the man says, chuckling. “It’s nice to meet you.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re—”

“Marco,” the man says, chuckling. “It’s nice to meet you. If I pull the door a little, could you see if you can pull the strap loose?” Jean nods and, with a little effort, the strap pulls free. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.” Jean looks down at the lamp, and then back up at the still-conscious Marco.

“You’re the hero from the other night.” Marco looks away for a split second. He gives a small laugh.

“You must have me confused with someone else.”

“Then what were you doing on the roof?” Jean asks.

“I look over the city before bed. It calms me down after work. I’ve been using the fire escape to get up there since your apartment has been empty for a while. I, uh,” he says, rubbing his neck with a smile, just like the hero did, “I didn’t know the door was so prone to sticking.”

“Then can I see in your bag?” Marco’s smile fades a little. Jean thinks he has him.

“I’d rather you not. We just met, right?” Jean glares at him. Marco is unfazed. He smiles again. _Damn that smile_. “I don’t even know your name.” It deflates Jean a bit. Maybe it’s the alcohol he’s sleeping off, but it half makes sense.

“It’s Jean.” Marco nods and puts his hand out, which Jean shakes.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jean. I’m sorry I disturbed you.” Marco walks to the door next to Jean’s, pulling his keys out of his pocket and turning the lock. As he opens the door, Jean bolts forward and slams it shut with his hand, surprising Marco. Jean looks him right in the eyes, Marco looking confused.

“Fine. Don’t admit it. I just wanted to say that I was an ass, and I’m sorry about that. You probably saved my life. I should have said thank you, and instead I was a complete dick to you. So, look, I’m really sorry, and thank you.” Marco is genuinely caught off guard. In the soft glow of the hallway lights, Jean can see Marco’s cheeks begin to redden. The longest ten seconds that Jean can remember passes by before Marco smiles.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, and Jean has to actively fight the urge to argue. “But thanks. You seem like a nice guy.” It’s Jean’s turn to blush, and it’s fresh off of Eren’s lecture about sarcastic reflexes that Jean keeps his mouth clamped shut. Marco gently pulls on the door, a subtle suggestion that Jean should let him open it. Jean moves his hand, looking away. “It’s nice to meet you, Jean.”

“Yeah, same.” Marco opens the door, but leans on the doorframe and smiles, looking in Jean’s eyes. Jean looks back, feeling warmer the longer it lasts.

“Good night, Jean. Sleep well.”

“Y-you too,” Jean says, his mouth dry as Marco waves and shuts the door. Jean stands there for a few seconds, his muddled brain trying to work through what just happened. When he walks back to his apartment, he flops onto the couch and passes out almost instantly, his last thought being Marco’s smile as he closed the door.

 

* * *

  

When Jean wakes up the next morning, he’s sore from the ungodly combination of a hangover, the previous day’s furniture moving, and the shitty couch he slept on while his bedframe is in pieces. He realizes he forgot his alarm clock in one of the boxes.

“Fuck,” Jean says, sitting up and groaning in pain. He holds his head in his hands, gritting his teeth. His entire head feels like one dry, pulsing nerve. He reaches for his phone, his eyes burning as the screen flashes on. When he finally can see what it says, he’s overslept by an hour. The battery is blinking on 2%. “Shit.” His impulse is to jump off of the couch and race to the shower. His actual reaction is a slow, grinding movement into an almost-sitting position. He wobbles as he stands. It isn’t walking as much as it is choreographed falling in a general forward direction.

As he turns the shower on, the unfamiliarity of the bathroom is overwhelming. His towels are in a box somewhere. His toothbrush is in a box somewhere. His razor, his soap, his comb, and his clothes are all in boxes somewhere. Jean runs his fingers through his hair. Jean decides that coffee is the solution to his poor life decisions, but then he remembers that the coffee is in a box somewhere.

By the time Jean gets to the office, the morning rush of login issues are waiting for him like water seeping overtop a dam. Almost all of them are people who have forgotten their passwords or forgotten the building’s Wi-Fi password. For each and every one of them, Jean has to pull their employee security file and ask their security password, and God bless the simpletons who get those questions wrong, because that requires them coming to the IT office so that Jean can check their ID badge. And of course there’s always one or two precious ones who don’t have their badges on them, which involves checking their driver’s licenses against their information in their employee files, all while enduring their bad attitudes, since it’s _Jean’s_ fault they can’t remember a password, personal question, or their badges.

By the time Jean has dug himself out of his morning hole from being thirty minutes late, it’s an hour past lunch. He’s already out of his chair, holding his jacket before his last call is even done. He can’t get out of the building fast enough. He’s sure that days like his are how workplace homicides get planned. As he rides the elevator down to the lobby, in those first few minutes of his day when he can really relax, he thinks back to the night before. To the man with the backpack. Marco, he said his name was. Those eyes, and that jaw. The freckles. His height, his body, his voice. Every detail matches the man who saved him.

But he was so _casual_ about it. And what about his leg? The man was shot. Marco was clearly not limping. The hero didn’t seem too fazed by it, though… but come on. What are the odds Jean would move into the apartment next to the superhero who saved is life? It would be Powerball odds. Lightning strike on a sunny day odds. Jean can’t rationally explain how it would be even remotely possible compared to the chances of his memory failing him while he was less than sober.

Except for those warm eyes and freckles. Those are something you don’t forget.

When Jean gets down to the lobby, he pulls out his phone and calls Eren. Eren was _almost_ a human being the night before, and Jean feels like he owes him.

“What’s up, short stack?” Eren asks when he answers.

“…what? I’m taller than you.”

“It is not your height I’m talking about,” Eren says with a dark chuckle.

“Fuck you, asshole,” Jean says, and the woman at the front desk shakes her in disapproval. He puts up a hand in apology. “I was going to ask if you wanted lunch, but if you’re going to be a d— … dork, then forget it.”

“I couldn’t anyways. Me and Armin swung by to check on Mikasa’s cat.”

“Say hi to him for me. So, interesting thing last night,” Jean says as he stops at the crosswalk.

“Yeah?”

“I met my new neighbor.”

“Woah, seriously!? Armin, Jean met his neighbor! In an _apartment_ building! We’d better get fucking on that before someone else picks up the scoop!” It’s not the day for this. Jean bites his lip, tapping his foot.

“Who shoved a stick up your ass this morning?” Jean finally asks.

“You know who _didn’t_ get it stuck up the ass? Armin, because my balls _still_ hurt. So fuck you if I seem a little on edge.”

“I’m sorry, Eren,” Jean says. “I just honestly didn’t know you had anything there.” When he pulls the door of the sandwich shop open, the smell of freshly baked bread fills his nose and mouth and floods straight into his brain. His stomach growls and his mouth is watering. After hours of verbal abuse on a day where everything is against him, it’s almost orgasmic. The sandwich shop never lets him down.

“Ground control to space cadet.”

“What?” Jean asks. Eren laughs a little.

“I asked about your neighbor.”

“Oh, yeah.” Jean starts playing with a loose thread on his jacket as he gets in line. In hindsight, maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned it. If he isn’t even sure in his head, how dumb is going to sound coming out of his mouth? To _Eren_?

“Did you fuck him?”

“No.”

“Is he running a drug ring out of his place?”

“What? No.”

“Jean, seriously,” Eren says, lowering his voice, “I’m watching this cat _not_ eat its food, but I can’t leave until it does because Mikasa was very specific about that, and I’m bored stupid.”

“You were already—“

“You have _got_ to give me something.” Jean is fourth in line. He shifts his weight, wrapping the thread around his finger and pulling it loose.

“I think my neighbor is the guy who saved me.”

“Really?” Eren asks.

“Yeah.” Jean waits, but Eren doesn’t say anything else. “You don’t think that’s dumb?” Jean asks.

“I think it’s super dumb,” Eren says. “But I’m seriously that bored.”

“Why did I tell you? Why do I tell you anything?” Jean shakes his head and looks around the sandwich shop. In the waning hour of the lunch rush, it’s emptier than Jean is used to.

“Why do you think he’s the same guy?”

“His freckles. His eyes. He had the same backpack. I caught him coming in from the roof. Stuff like that.”

“Did you ask him?”

“Yeah,” Jean says. “He played dumb.”

“But you’re sure it’s the same guy?”

“I— yes? I don’t know.”

“Then just catch him in the act,” Eren says.

“Yes, because I have nothing better to do with my life than stalking my neighbor around the city to see if he starts flying and saving lives.” The woman in front of Jean casts a glance at him. He glares for her to mind her own business.

“No, dumbass, you catch him coming home. You said he came from the roof, right?”

“Yeah,” Jean says.

“Then it’s simple.”

“You’re simple, Eren.”

“You wait on the roof and catch him when he comes back.” Jean opens his mouth to tell Eren how big of a fucking idiot he is, how it would never work and that only someone as dumb as Eren could possibly think of such an awful plan. But he can’t figure out why. He can’t figure out a problem with it at all. It’s… not bad?

“Wow.”

“Wow, what?” Eren asks.

“That’s actually a decent idea. It might even be halfway good. How did _you_ think of it?”

“Because,” Eren says, “I’m a reporter—”

“Cameraman.”

“— and it’s my job to find stuff out, especially when people don’t want me to.” Jean thinks it over while he orders a Reuben on a Kaiser roll.

“Maybe.”

“Do it. Tell me how it goes. Oh, and don’t forget to watch Friday,” Eren whispers. “It’s gonna be awesome.”

“Sure thing,” Jean says, because when Eren says a news segment is going to be awesome, it usually is. Awesomely bad, awesomely good, just pure awesomely awe-inspiring, who knows? But Eren doesn’t do subtle when he sets his mind to something. It’s a bit of a long silence, and when Jean listens closely he can hear Armin and Eren having a whispered conversation.

“I gotta go,” Eren says finally.

“Something wrong?” Jean asks. Eren just chuckles and hangs up. Jean looks at his phone as the ended call cuts back to his home screen. He rolls his eyes and tucks it back into his pocket, trying not to think about Eren and Armin passing the time on Mikasa’s couch, because that horny chuckle only means one thing.

 

* * *

 

With devices connected to the network and everybody logged into their computers, the rest of Jean’s day is borderline boring. As the hours drag on, he finds himself working out the details of his plan to catch Marco. He’ll casually walk out of the stairwell just as Marco lands on the roof, explaining that he wasn’t able to sleep in his new apartment and thought of Marco’s suggestion about watching the city from the rooftop. He’ll sit in the stairwell so that Marco doesn’t see him waiting and go in through the fire escape. If he waits until right after Marco lands, he could possibly catch him still taking off his mask. The more red-handed he catches him, the less Marco can deny it. And the more he thinks the plan through, the more foolproof and simple it seems to get. It bothers Jean a little that Eren had thought of it so easily.

At the end of the workday, Jean heads back to the sandwich shop to grab dinner for himself and his mother. As he walks out of the building, he looks down the street at his old apartment. A shady looking man in a leather jacket is sitting on a stoop halfway down the street. His head is shaved and his scalp covered in tattoos. Even from down the street, Jean can see the flash of spiked, brass knuckles one of the local gangs tends to use. The man looks back at him, their eyes meeting. Jean is the one who breaks eye contact, crossing the street when the light changes. He orders two sandwiches and an extra order of fries. As he heads back into the office building, he looks down the street again and finds the man staring back at him. Jean tries to ignore the way that paranoia slithers up his spine. It only eases when he notices the security guard getting settled at the front desk for the night shift.

His mother is waiting in the lobby of the lawyer’s office. “Jean,” she says with a smile, but frowns as she gets a better look at the mark on his cheek. “Oh, Jean…”

“I’m fine. It looks worse than it is. Blood vessels in the face, you know? He barely tapped me.” It doesn’t ease her frown at all, and she reaches up to press her fingers gently against his cheek. It takes every ounce of effort not to cringe at the pain.

“The new apartment?” she asks.

“Safer,” Jean says with a smile, trying to convince her. “My neighbor is a—” _Shut the fuck up, Jean!_ “—uhhh, really nice. And the landlady lives in the building. She’s always around. She keeps an eye on things. They’re nice. Good people.”

“That’s good,” Jean’s mom says as she unwraps their food. Jean nods and relaxes with a slow breath. After a length of silence while they eat, she says, “I didn’t ever want to say anything about your walking home.”

“I know,” Jean says. “And thanks.”

“I don’t know where you get your stubbornness from,” she says. Jean laughs.

“Gee, _I wonder_ ,” he says, and it’s his mother’s turn to laugh. It dies fast, though, and Jean is left with the gnawing silence.

“You should talk to your father, Jean,” she says finally. Jean snorts.

“Has he paid you anything?”

“No.”

“Then I really _don’t_ need to talk to him.”

“Jean,” she says, but Jean cuts her off.

“He’s a cheap, selfish jackass. I’ve already had more than the lifetime recommended dose of that. If anything, I need more people like you around.” His mother smiles at that.

“So sweet,” she says. “I just don’t understand why you and Mikasa never dated.” Jean nearly chokes on his bite of sandwich, and his mother pats his back while he coughs. Add relationship status commentary from his mother to the list of things wrong with the day.

“Sorry,” he says, winded and a bit hoarse. “Swallowed too fast.” His mother doesn’t bring up Mikasa again that night, which is fine. How does a guy explain to his mom that he and Eren getting caught sucking each other off by Mikasa in high school rules out any chance with her, _ever_?

 

* * *

  

When Jean gets home around 10:30, he tosses his bag onto the couch and changes out of his work clothes. There’s nothing quite as freeing as ripping off his tie and dress shirt and changing into a simple t-shirt. He grabs a thick pair of jeans, a jacket, and walks across the hallway, sitting close to the top of the stairs. He cracks the door to the roof just slightly so that he can hear any movement on the fire escape, just in case. Jean is excited. He isn’t sure that he should be excited, but he is. No wonder Eren loves this sort of stuff. There’s a thrill to it, even in the simple things.

To pass the time, Jean pulls his phone out of his pocket. He checks Facebook, plays Sudoku, watches Youtube videos, anything at all to keep himself occupied. Going on midnight, it turns into a fight to stay awake. His body is even sorer than it was when he woke up, and it doesn’t help that a day of sitting in a shitty office chair is being followed up by overtime in a shitty stairwell. His ass hurts, his eyes are burning, his back is stiff. By 2:30 in the morning, Jean is ready to give up. He’s exhausted and needs at least _some_ sleep for work. As he approaches the door to the hallway, he hears voices. There’s a handful of things he expects to find – a neighbor, the landlady, maybe a burglar – but Marco’s door wide open is not one of them.

Two men are standing outside the door, one of them a muscular blonde with shoulders so thick there are some bulls who must be jealous, the other a tall and slender brunette with his arm wrapped around the blonde’s shoulders. They turn around, a bit surprised. Standing between them, in the doorway, is Marco.

“Oh, Jean! Reiner, Bertolt, this is Jean, the new neighbor. Jean, these are my friends.” Jean’s shoulders slump. He doesn’t bother to look at the two men. He looks straight at Marco. He glares at Marco. Marco, who should be in a mask and with a backpack and landing on the roof. Motherfucking Marco.


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh, Jean! Reiner, Bertolt, this is Jean. Jean, these are my friends.” Jean’s shoulders slump. He doesn’t bother to look at them. He looks straight at Marco. He glares at Marco. Marco, who should be in a mask and with a backpack and landing on the roof. Motherfucking Marco. Reiner and Bertolt look at each other in the awkward silence, confused.

“Hey, man, we’re gonna go,” the blond says finally, leaning against the brunette. “Thanks for tonight.” Marco offers them leftovers, which they turn down. They cast a glance at Jean as they leave.

“I hope we didn’t bother you,” Marco says as the two step onto the elevator. Jean looks Marco over, checking for any sign of superheroic deeds. There are none. He’s dressed in baggy gym shorts and a sweatshirt for some sports team.

“No,” Jean says, finally. It’s a release of air more than a word, a sigh of defeat. “You didn’t.”

“Is everything okay?” Marco asks. Jean looks up. Marco is genuinely concerned, and for a fleeting second Jean thinks it’s adorable how Marco’s freckles get pinched in his frown lines when he’s worried.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?” Marco asks, relieved a bit, though still frowning.

“I was trying to catch you on the roof,” Jean says. Marco looks surprised, even a bit confused.

“You were?” Marco asks. Jean nods. “Well, do you want me to go up to the roof with you now?”

“No,” Jean says, sharp and biting. “I wanted to catch you flying. In your mask. Coming back from crimefighting like last night.”

“I can’t fly, Jean. I’m not—”

“ _Not a superhero_ , yes, you’ve said that.”

“Well, maybe I need to say it again,” Marco says, offering a chuckle to diffuse the tension. He reaches back to rub his neck. Just like the hero. Just like last night. Motherfucking Marco. “I have leftover pizza.”

“What?” Jean asks. The subject change is slow to register.

“We had pizza tonight. Do you want to come in?” Jean looks unsure. He’s tired, he’s sore, he feels like an idiot. Marco smiles and puts a hand out. “I think we got off on the wrong foot, somehow. Can we start over? And if not, maybe seeing that my apartment isn’t a superhero hideout will make you feel better.” Jean starts to turn him down, but there’s something disarming about Marco’s smile. It’s so innocent and warm, and Jean can smell the pizza. He shrugs and shakes Marco’s hand. Marco pushes the door open wider for him.

The apartment is cozy. It has a lived-in feel to it, but it’s still cleaner than Jean manages to keep his own. Bottles of beer sit on top of an empty pizza box, stacked neatly at the end of the coffee table. The couches are worn from use, but very comfortable when Jean sits down on one. The living room is designed around the T.V. rather than for conversation, unlike his mother’s apartment.

“Girlfriend?” Jean asks, and quickly follows up with, “I’d hate to keep anyone awake.”

“Single. No bother,” Marco says. “I can heat up a slice for you. I don’t have any room in the fridge for these, so you’re doing me a favor.” Jean nods and Marco grabs three slices, disappearing into the kitchen. As pathetic as he knows it is, Jean looks around for the backpack or a mask or any other evidence of superheroism.  

“So you’re up pretty late on a week night,” Jean says. The couch is so comfortable Jean starts to feel his eyes drift shut. He forces himself to sit up, blinking the sleep away. Marco wanders back into the room, grinning at Jean.

“I could say the same about you.” Jean rolls his eyes.

“I told you why I was up.”

“Yeah,” Marco says with a laugh. Jean gives him a warning frown. “Fair enough. We were watching a hockey game. Surveyors won 3 to 2 in a shootout. I don’t go into work until the afternoon.”

“And where do you work?” Jean asks. Jean is too tired to care what his tone sounds like. Marco doesn’t answer right away. It’s a two second pause before the microwave beeps and saves Marco. Marco only gives him a small smile.

“We work for a friend of ours,” Marco says when he comes back. “It’s a salvage company. We go into buildings that are abandoned or slated for demolition and we strip them of anything salvageable. I handle the pipes and plumbing, Bertholdt deals with the wiring and more intricate things. Reiner…,” Marco grins, “he lifts heavy things. He uses the sledgehammer to take down anything in our way and tears the sheetrock off for Bertolt and me.”

“I’ve honestly never met anyone who did that before,” Jean says, suspending his disbelief long enough to keep Marco talking. Jean finds it soothing when Marco talks. He’ll worry later about the implications of that. “Do you like it?”

“It isn’t dull,” Marco says, and Jean snorts.

“I know dull.” He reaches for a slice of pizza. The concept of adequacy is fluid and highly dependent on context, and in the context of Marco sitting next to him on the couch, genuinely listening to him and watching him as he bites into the pizza, the slice is much more than just adequate.

“Oh?” Marco asks. Jean nods.

“I’m an IT technician for an office building near the Plaza in King’s Row. I deal with security problems.”

“That sounds exciting,” Marco says.

“ _Sounds_ exciting. I help people with their passwords and keep their phones connected to the building’s wireless network. Someone else with a far more interesting job gave us the security program. I just try to keep office sheep from wandering out of its protection.”

“But you don’t have the danger of a ceiling collapsing on you,” Marco says with a smile, and Jean laughs a little. He relaxes more, and if Marco doesn’t stop Jean might fall asleep next to him. The smell of pizza and the weight of a long day fills the moment of silence between them, until Marco smiles and sets his plate down.

“So, thoughts on my superhero hideout?” Jean rolls his eyes.

“I was wondering when you’d ask about the four hour stakeout.” Marco raises his eyebrows.

“Four hours?” And it’s right then, right there, in that very nanosecond that the universe shifts in just the slightest and most perfect of all ways for Jean to realize the flaw in Eren’s simple, perfect, dumbass plan.

“Fuck,” Jean says, tossing his paper plate on the coffee table and running his fingers through his hair. “I sat in a stairwell for four hours.” Marco tries to smother the laugh, but the harder he tries to stop the louder his laughing gets.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Go ahead, laugh,” Jean says with a groan. “I wasted four hours of my life in a stairwell.” Marco laughs harder, clutching at his stomach. Jean looks over and can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. The freckles on Marco’s neck look like they’re bouncing as he laughs. Maybe it’s the pizza and comfortable couch, or maybe it’s something more than that, but Jean could watch Marco laugh for hours. On some level, he’d sit in the stairwell all over again if he knew this would be the reward. When Marco quits laughing, Jean looks at him. “Hey.”

“Hm?” Marco turns to look at Jean, who meets his eyes.

“Just… I want to be done with this. So look me in the eyes and tell me the truth. Are you a superhero?” The five seconds of silence are as cool and fragile as glass.

“No, Jean. I am not a superhero.” Jean nods. The conversation lulls as Jean lets the answer sink in. Fuck what he saw that night, or what he thinks he remembers. His gut and brain is sure, nothing else makes sense. But Jean is sure that Marco was being honest. No man with eyes so soft can lie so easily and well. “Do you like sports?” Marco asks, changing the subject. It’s a lifeline. Marco is merciful in that way, unlike Eren. Or even Connie, maybe. They talk about hockey, or rather Marco talks about hockey while Jean tries to follow along. It isn’t boredom – far from it – that draws a yawn out of Jean.

“It’s getting late,” Marco says when Jean can’t stop yawning.

“Yeah,” Jean says, a slight frown. He realizes that his cheeks hurt from smiling so much. “I’d invite you over, but my apartment is still in boxes.”

“Do you need any help?” Marco asks.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“I don’t mind,” Marco says. Jean starts to resist, but Marco smiles. Jean’s brain searches for an appropriate response. In moments like this, Eren argues, Armin insists, Connie wheedles Jean into submission. But Marco? He smiles, and it’s more effective than all of the others combined. Jean’s face goes warm, his tongue forgets how to move, his chest feels itself filling with warm air.

“I… guess,” Jean says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know why you would.”

“We’re neighbors.” Jean nods, still unsure of what just happened. He stands up to leave, and Marco stands with him.

 “I can get home around 8:30,” Jean says. “Is that good for you?”

“Sure. I’ll see you then.”

“Favorite kind of pizza?’ Jean asks.

“Pepperoni, I guess?”

“Alright,” Jean says. “I owe you.” Marco shakes his head at that, but after where everything has gone wrong, it’s Jean’s turn to get his way. “See you then,” Jean says, already at the door. Marco sighs and nods with a smile.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Jean is only slightly more alive than the reheated pizza. With four hours of sleep after two long days, he grabs his phone, tempted to call in sick.  But a day at home means a day unpacking, which is a lesser evil than whiny office workers. Jean drags himself off of the couch and forces himself through each miserable step.

The warm shower eases him into the microwaved breakfast and cup of coffee. Jean hates coffee, but keeps it in the cabinet for rough mornings and hangovers. This morning qualifies, although the end of the night made up for it all. Jean smiles a little thinking about Marco, which eases him out the door and towards the office. When Jean walks out into the hallway, he’s surprised to see Marco coming out of the elevator, carrying a plate covered with tinfoil. Marco smiles and waves. Jean waves back.

“Hi,” Marco says. “Did you sleep well?” Marco looks awake. More awake than a person should look so early in the morning.

“It’s like 7:45,” Jean says. He pulls out his phone to make sure. Marco chuckles.

“Mrs. Perkins likes me to grab her paper as soon as possible. She’s older and worries someone will steal it, so she makes an extra plate of breakfast for me in return. I’m a sucker for eggs and bacon.”

“I’ll bet you are,” Jean says. It takes Marco a few seconds, but he gives Jean a small laugh. Or maybe he didn’t get it at all and gives a pity laugh, Jean can’t tell. “How are you awake, though? It’s _7:45_.”

“You’re awake,” Marco points out.

“No, don’t confuse _this_ ,” Jean says, nodding to himself, “with being awake. I’m conscious, not awake.”

“So you didn’t sleep well,” Marco says, frowning a little.

“Oh God, you’re a morning person,” Jean says, shaking his head as he smacks at the button to call the elevator. Of course Marco’s a morning person. Of course he’s a person who would go out of his way to get a newspaper for an old woman. Marco smiles and shrugs.

“I guess so. You said 8:30, right?”

“Yeah,” Jean says. “Putting the bed back together is the biggest thing.”

 “We can do that,” Marco says as the elevator chimes and the doors open. It’s just in time, because Jean can smell the bacon and eggs. They’re miles beyond the frozen breakfast he nuked in the microwave. “Have a good day, Jean.” Jean feels himself warm a bit.

“Yeah. You too. Save room for pizza.” Marco nods with a smile as the door closes. Jean is smiling as well, his day suddenly a bit better.

But by 5:30, Marco’s pleasantness is the farthest thing from Jean’s mind. He can now confirm that whiny office workers are _not_ the lesser of evils. Whiny office workers have opinions, which are wrong, and thoughts, or so they say, and feelings, which can be offended when Jean tells them where they can shove their keyboards. By the time he’s walking out of the office building, Jean has barely survived the day. He’s tempted to put off Marco and unpacking for another day, but there’s a nagging, mother-instilled sense of guilt for eating Marco’s pizza and not returning the favor as soon as possible. And Jean _does_ want to fall asleep in his bed tonight. Those are the thoughts that keep Jean from canceling.

When Jean gets home, it’s 8:45. Marco’s door is open, and when Jean peeks inside Marco is sitting on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table, a tool chest sitting beside them. He looks up when Jean taps on the door.

“Hi,” Marco says.

“Hey. Sorry, traffic was crazy. Some drug bust or something.” Marco nods and points to the T.V.

“It’s on the news, so I figured you’d be tied up. Do you need a few minutes, or want to get started?”

“I’ll just change really fast,” Jean says.

“Take your time,” Marco says. Marco looks so relaxed, wearing jeans and a t-shirt with the logo of a local superhero group. Jean smiles at him, Marco giving a confused smile back. Jean walks next door to his apartment, going straight to the bedroom and digging through the boxes of clothes for a t-shirt and shorts. The bedroom is a cluttered kind of empty. The mattress leans up against the wall by the closet, with boxes spread around that Jean has dug through over the past few days. He looks himself over in the reflection of the window, intentionally ignoring the implications of primping just for help unpacking. The bed frame is still in seven pieces, none of which seem to go together. All Jean knows is that Eren yelled at Connie, pulled on the pieces harder than seemed necessary, and that a screwdriver was involved. When Jean walks back into the living room, Marco is standing in the hallway outside of Jean’s door, peeking inside. Jean waves him in.

“I wasn’t sure if I should just walk in,” Marco says with an embarrassed grin. The living room is no better than the bedroom, with furniture shoved to one side and the boxes stacked on the other. Marco has the toolbox with him, and after a few seconds of Jean looking at it, Marco says, “I wasn’t sure what all we’d need.”

“I don’t even have one, so…” Marco raises his eyebrows.

“Really?” Jean shrugs. “You probably should.”

“I have a screwdriver and a hammer,” Jean says, more defensive than he means to be. Marco turns his head when he chuckles, trying to be tactful, but Jean did not miss the amused look on Marco’s face. “I work with computers, it’s all I need.”

“Well, we can trade things out, then. You help me with my laptop, and I’ll show you what a ratchet is.”

“I know what a ratchet is,” Jean says, blurting it out, completely defensive now.

“What’s a ratchet, Jean?” Jean presses his lips together, glaring at Marco, whose grin is widening with each passing second.

“I will not have my knowledge of tools tested to entertain you like some kind of circus monkey.”

“You have no idea what it is,” Marco says with a laugh.

“How relevant could it be if I don’t know what it is?” Jean asks.

“What should we start with?” Marco asks, still chuckling a little but clearly changing the subject. He’s merciful, unlike Eren or Connie.

“The bed frame. I can’t figure it out.”

“It must need a ratchet,” Marco says, and Jean punches him in the arm. Marco’s bicep is pure muscle, with just the slightest give beneath Jean’s knuckles. Barely enough for Jean to tell the difference between flesh and stone.  “Sorry,” Marco says.

“Yeah, sure,” Jean says with a frown as he leads Marco to the bedroom. Marco’s eyebrows go up again as he stares at the pile of metal bars in the middle of the floor. “Something wrong?” Jean asks. Marco rubs his neck.

“Well…,” Marco says, chewing his lip as he thinks. Jean is too distracted by that to worry about his bed frame “There are things unattached from pieces they should be attached to still.”

“The screws and stuff are over here,” Jean says, tapping a dresser drawer with his foot.

“It’s…” Marco stares at the drawer. _Fuck, he’s cute when he thinks_. “Typically you don’t need to undo screws for this type of bed frame.”

“So this is bad?” Jean asks. Marco opens his mouth, then closes it and smiles.

“Why don’t we go ahead and get some pizza while I look at it?” Jean nods.

“I do computer stuff,” Jean says again.

“Yeah,” Marco says, finally understanding the night’s work.

 

* * *

 

Jean will admit that Marco’s strength is impressive. Not just his physical strength, but his patience with complex tasks and Jean’s building frustration as well. It takes Marco thirty minutes to reassemble the main pieces of the bed frame, and all of two minutes snapping those pieces together. Apparently bed frames are designed to be simple. Marco uses tact in explaining the science behind a bedframe, which Jean appreciates. But Marco does add that neither screwdrivers nor ratchets are required. The latter gets Marco another punch in the arm.

They spend the rest of the hour moving large pieces of furniture to their appropriate locations. Which is to say that Marco spends the rest of the hour moving large pieces of furniture while Jean tries to look useful. With the T.V. drowning out the pockets of silence, Jean unpacks the rest of the boxes in the kitchen and living room while Marco reassembles Jean’s desk and T.V. stand. After those are done, the T.V. and Jean’s computer are put back into their proper place. Jean relaxes on the couch, stretching his arms and legs out. Marco sits at the other end, sweaty and enjoying the softness of the couch.

“Thanks so much,” Jean says. “I have a place to live again.”

“No problem,” Marco says.

“Of course it was a problem. That’s like an hour of your life fixing someone else’s shit.”

“So?” Marco asks.

“So, that’s my day job. I know how big of a problem it is.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” Marco says again, chuckling. “I like helping people.”

“Must be a morning person thing,” Jean says. Marco laughs like it’s a joke. Jean smiles, guessing that maybe it could be a half-joke if Marco wants it to be. “Seriously though. Thanks.”

“It’s fine, Jean,” Marco says. “Moving heavy objects is _my_ day job. Tonight was easy compared to that.”

“Yeah?” Jean asks. “I didn’t wear you out, did I?”

“We don’t work every day. This afternoon was just paperwork and scoping out a few new sites.”

“Oh.”

“What about you?” Marco asks. “Anything exciting with your job today?”

“I threatened to shove a keyboard up someone’s ass.” Marco laughs again like Jean is joking. Jean looks at Marco relaxing back into the couch. Somehow, Marco makes Jean warm all over with the smallest, simplest things. The way his freckles dance on his cheek when he smiles, the way his eyes are warm and relaxed and soft like coffee, the way his whole face lights up as if the person he’s talking to is the most interesting person he’s ever met… Jean catches himself staring before Marco does. “How did you get into the salvage thing?”

“I was doing some carpentry work for a contractor,” Marco says. “I met the owner of the business at a job site right after he opened the company up. The contractor was running out of work for me and the guy I work for was expanding his business. Things work out like that, you know?” Jean shrugs.

“I guess,” Jean says.

“What about you?” Marco asks. “How did you get into computers?” Jean stares off as he thinks.

“Job security and good career opportunities,” Jean says. “My minor was in mass communications. My friends talked me into doing it with them.”

“Do you like what you do?”

“Not most days,” Jean says with a dark chuckle. Marco frowns. “It’s not satisfying, but it pays well enough and there’s plenty of jobs out there.”

“Then why did you study it?” Jean gives a half smile.

“I just told you,” Jean says, looking over at the T.V.. “And I don’t _not_ like it. Coding is fun once you learn the basics. And setting up stable and secure networks is satisfying. But…” Jean shrugs. “Financial security is important.”

“Not as important as being happy.”

“It’s a means to an end,” Jean says. “Money doesn’t make you happy, but lack of money can make you very _un_ happy. Believe me, I know.”

“Yeah,” Marco says. And Jean knows that Marco knows. There’s an echo in the voice of a man who understands the lack of money. It’s deep and hollow like a system of caves running through his lungs. It comes out of the mouth like a cold wind, paling the lips and making you shiver if you feel it. It’s a chilling silence. Marco is the one who warms first. “But you’re right. It _is_ a means to an end. So what are working towards? What is it that makes Jean… I don’t even know your last name,” Marco says with a laugh. “What is it that makes _you_ happy?”

“Kirstein.” Marco tilts his lead, looking at Jean. “My last name,” Jean says with a smile. Marco smiles back.

“What makes Jean Kirstein happy?” Jean should know the answer. It’s a simple question. He looks down at the floor, at the worn and frazzled strands of carpet. Jean finally shrugs.

“What about you?” Jean asks.

“What about me?”

“What makes _you_ happy, Mr. Expert?” Jean thinks he has him.

“My family,” Marco says with a warm smile. Motherfucking Marco. Jean shakes his head.

“Lucky,” Jean says under his breath.

“Yeah,” Marco says. “Very.”

“I wouldn’t know about family,” Jean says after a few seconds.

“Oh?”

“My parents are divorced. My dad is an asshole.” Marco frowns and puts a hand on Jean’s shoulder. It’s a warm and grounding connection.

“I’m sorry, Jean.” Jean nods, looking at Marco. He can’t help but be pulled in.

“I mean, I know lots of people say stuff like that after a divorce. But he’s a multimillionaire who flooded the courtroom with lawyers and walked away with no alimony, no child support, and everything we owned. _Everything_.” Jean is clutching his fist against the couch, a habit when he discusses his father. He knows he should stop talking, but the vents are open and he can’t stop. “She put her life on hold for him. She’s not from a rich family like he was, she was a secretary when she met him. She cleaned fucking toilets to pay our rent afterwards, and he’s deciding each night which mansion he wants to sleep in.” Marco’s fingers gently tap Jean’s shoulder like a summer breeze to his anger’s heat. Marco’s watching him and listening to him and _caring_ about him. Jean sighs and unclenches his fist. “So yeah. That’s why.”

“Why what?” Marco asks. His voice is gentle. Jean leans his head back against the couch.

“Why money is important. I want the safety net. I want to know that if everything else fell out from under me, I could still make enough to take care of us both no matter what. I’ll figure the rest out later. The happiness stuff. She deserves this first.” Marco nods.

“Yeah,” Marco says. “That’s why I got the job working for the carpenter. We needed money.” Jean rolls his head to the side. Their eyes meet. The headlights on the highway and the T.V. commercial’s jingle and the fabric of the couch all revolve around them for those few moments.

“But what do you _want?_ ” Jean asks. Marco looks at him. “What does Marco…”

“Bott.”

“Yeah,” Jean says, giving a small smile that Marco returns. “What does Marco Bott _want_?”

“To—”Marco says, but cuts it short. He clamps his mouth shut and looks away. Jean sits up. Marco gets a shit eating grin. “To be a superhero.”

“Fuck you,” Jean says. “You fucking asshole.” There’s a knock on the door. Jean stands up, pulling his wallet out to pay for the pizza.

“I’m sorry,” Marco says, laughing. “Really, Jean, I’m sorry.”

“I’m feeding you, so you better be,” Jean says after he closes the door, pizza box in hand. “What were you _going_ to say?”

“To help people,” Marco says. “I don’t know how yet. Just… somehow.”

“You’re good at it,” Jean says. There’s a knock at the door, and Jean stands up again, assuming it’s the pizza delivery guy. “Shit, what time is it?” Marco checks his watch while Jean fumbles for the remote.

“10:00,” Marco says. “Is something wrong?”

“My friend has a thing.” The newscast is winding down just as Jean flips to the channel and opens the door. Instead of the delivery guy, Eren is standing in the hallway with a lumpy garbage bag. “Oh, Eren. Your thing’s on.”

“Yeah?” Eren says. His voice is off. There’s no joking or teasing, no energy or confidence. He follows Jean into the apartment, clutching the bag to his chest. Marco stands as Eren walks in and puts his hand out. Eren sets the bag down and shakes Marco’s hand. “Are you superhero guy?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Jean says as Marco laughs a little.

“Yeah,” Marco says. “Nice to meet you. You’re on the news, aren’t you?”

“He is,” Jean says. “Eren, this is _Marco._ He has a name.”

“Jean,” Eren says, “Can we talk for a minute?”

“You’ve been up my ass all week about this, Eren.”

“Jean…” Eren says.

“What, Eren?” Eren pauses when Jean snaps at him. Eren only ever gets this way for one reason. He stares at the floor.

 “Armin left me,” Eren says finally. His usual intensity has given way to near lifelessness. He stands there like a lost puppy, abandoned in a field and watching the car drive away. He looks too hollow to even cry.

“Again?” Jean says.

“Jean…” Marco says, frowning. Jean waves him off.

“It’s like a bimonthly thing with them,” Jean says. “What did you do this time?”

“Nothing. I mean… I don’t…” Eren says, but his body deflates as the words trail away.

 

_“And to wrap up the week, it’s our very own Eren Jaeger with Eren’s Action News,” the newscaster says. The T.V. cuts to Armin standing in a plane, wearing a colorful jumpsuit. Eren is leaning around the camera, halfway in the shot._

_“This week we’ll be interviewing Armin live during his very first skydive!” Eren says. “You ready, Armin?”_

_“Yea— wait, what?” Armin looks at Eren, his face steadily washing over with terror. “You said it was a cutaway shot,” Armin whispers._

_“I had to get you up here,” Eren whispers back, laughing._

_“Eren—“_

_“Come on, Armin, it’s fine!”_

_“No, Eren, it’s not fine,” Armin’s voice beginning to shake as he says it. One of the instructors opens the door. “I’m not doing this.”_

_“We’re already up here,” Eren says._

_“Tough luck,” Armin says, backing away._

_“Armin, come on,” Eren says, grabbing for Armin’s arm. The camera’s shot bounces around, Eren clearly trying to balance it on his shoulder._

_“No!” There’s a slight struggle and a string of censoring beeps as Armin is pulled back against Eren’s chest. “Let me go! I said no! Eren!” His voice is a mix of desperate sobs and threatening fury._

_“Just hang on, okay?” Clips latch before the roar of wind fills the T.V. speakers. Soft clouds and blue sky fill the screen as they stand in front of the door. Even then, Armin’s shouts can be heard._

_“Eren! Damn it!” The roar of wind is overtaken by a long, piercing scream as Eren and Armin fall from the plane, which shrinks to a small dot on the screen in seconds. The entire T.V. screen is blue, unending sky as they fall._

_“How does it feel!?” Eren yells._

_“Please, God!” Armin screams. “Please! Oh, God!” Armin alternates between sobbing and screaming as Eren tries to turn the camera around. The two are in the shot for all of four seconds before the wind rips it from Eren’s hands and sends it hurdling towards the ground. The screaming fades. The screen becomes a pulsing flash of green field and blue sky as the camera spins. After a minute and a half, the shot cuts out and returns to the news anchors, who are laughing to the point of tears._

“Jean,” Eren finally says. Jean is laughing so hard he can’t breathe, grasping at his stomach as he gulps for odd breaths of air, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Marco stands there, confused, caught between Jean’s hysterical laughter and Eren’s despondence. His brows are furrowed with concern, but he can’t help the smile on his lips.

“You fucking retard,” Jean says after a giant breath.

“Jean, please,” Eren says with a sad whine.

“You’re so fucking dumb.”

“Jean…”

“How are you so dumb?”

“Jean, please not now,” Eren says, exhausted.

“I can’t feel my face, Eren.”

“Jean, this is not funny!” Eren says with a glare.

“I know Mikasa’s out of town,” Jean says, “but is there not some tiny voice in your head, or even some microscopic part of your pea-sized brain, that considered it might be a _bad idea_?”

“How was I supposed to know—“

“You shoved your boyfriend out of a plane, you dickwit!”

“I thought he’d like it!”

“You fucking moron,” Jean says, laughing again. “There are protists smarter than you. There is an amoeba out there somewhere laughing at how completely fucking dumb you are.” Jean descends into laughter again. Eren reaches down for his garbage bag of clothes. Just as Jean gasps for another gulp of air, Eren swings it like a sledgehammer right into Jean’s face.

“Jackass,” Eren says, glaring. Jean sputters, trying to contain himself. “I was going to ask if I could stay here, but now you have me whether you fucking want it or not!”

“God knows you need a babysitter,” Jean says, too tired to laugh any more.

“Is there anything I can do?” Marco asks.

“The scarecrow needs a brain, oh mighty wizard,” Jean says.

“I’m fresh out of them,” Marco says with a chuckle. Eren flops into the lounge chair, pulling his knees against his chest and staring out the window.


	4. Chapter 4

 

“I’m fresh out of them,” Marco says with a chuckle. Eren flops into the lounge chair, pulling his knees up against his chest and staring off. When Jean catches his breath, he waves his hands in Eren’s face.

“Ground control to Major Dumb.”

“It’s different this time,” Eren says, tucking his head into his arms.

“You say that every time,” Jean says.

“He hates me.”

“I hate you most of the time, too.”

“I shoved him out of a plane,” Eren says, slumping down further into the chair, curling up into as small a ball as possible. 

“Yeah, you did,” Jean says with a laugh.

“You meant well,” Marco says, testing to see if it’s his place. “You got caught up in the moment. It happens.”

“To who?” Jean laughs.

“Not in this exact way,” Marco says, rubbing his neck. Jean stops laughing, distracted by how fucking cute Marco is when he does it.  When Marco stops, catching Jean looking, Jean looks away. He looks back to Eren. Jean knows that broken expression, those lifeless eyes, that cold and wispy breath. Jean rolls his eyes, stands up, and walks over to Eren.

“Look at me,” Jean says. When Eren does, Jean puts his fist against Eren’s cheek and slowly pushes with a gentle punch. “Armin knows what he signed on for. It’s why he always takes you back. Sure, you’re a living test of the border between stupidity and natural selection, but you’ve also never cheated on him and you love him more than I knew you were capable of.” Jean kneels down, looking Eren in the eyes. “If he needed a kidney transplant, the hell if you wouldn’t cut one of your own out to give him, and that’s not even how it works but you’re too dumb to care. All things considered, you’re a far better boyfriend than you are an idiot.”

Eren takes a few long, deep breaths. He looks between Jean and the smiling Marco. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jean says with a smile. “Pull your head out of your ass, Jaeger. And prepare to offer a kidney, cause it may take that.” Eren nods.

“You have beer?” Eren asks after a few seconds.

“In the fridge,” Jean says. Eren gets out of the chair and walks to the kitchen, rummaging through Jean’s fridge. Jean’s stock of alcohol will be gone by morning. Marco steps to Jean’s side, putting an arm on his shoulder. Jean jumps at the touch, but relaxes into it immediately. Marco leaves his hand there.

“That was really nice, Jean,” Marco says. Jean looks at him. They smile together, and Jean is tempted to lean his head against Marco’s shoulder.

“I have my moments,” Jean says. “He takes a special touch. Ninety-nine in a hundred, it’s a slap upside the head. If it doesn’t work and Armin’s involved? That’s the one in the hundred.”

“So they really are together?” Marco asks.

“What do you mean?” Jean asks. Marco shrugs, biting his lip as he measures the question in his head.

“The stuff about them dating. I’ve seen them on the news before. I didn’t know if it was just rumors or if it was true.”

“It’s true,” Jean says. “We all grew up together, but it was different between them. They didn’t even know they were dating until we told them. They just go together, like yin and yang, or night and day. ” Marco smiles and looks at Jean for what feels like minutes. Jean feels his face warm, fumbling through his brain for a change in topic. “Anyways, they’re the friends who got me to minor in mass communication.” He’s saved by Eren, who comes back with three bottles of beer and a plate stacked with pizza slices.

“You need more alcohol,” Eren says. “There wasn’t enough.”

“I don’t stock my fridge for your relationship problems.” A flash of pain shoots through Eren’s eyes before he groans and slumps back into the chair.

“I have some beer left over,” Marco says with a smile. Jean shrugs.

“You get to help me deal with his hangover tomorrow.” Marco looks at Eren, frowning. Eren is staring at an unopened beer bottle, lost in thought and pain.

“Sure,” Marco says finally. “I’ll be right back.” Jean rolls his eyes and sits on the couch, looking at Eren.

“It hurts, Jean.”

“Yeah.”

“Kill me?” Jean kicks at Eren’s leg.

“Suck it up, Jaegar.”

“At least I don’t swallow like you.” Eren can’t help the faintest, most microscopic smile cracking at the corners of his mouth. It’s the one sign Jean needs that he’ll be okay.

 

* * *

 

Jean wakes up to someone knocking on his door. He forces himself out of bed, exhausted from the night of handling a very drunk, very erratic Eren Jaeger, whose emotions ran the range of weepy, giddy, self-loathing, and desperate.  Jean staggers to the door, eyes still swollen from a lack of sleep. With each step Jean weighs the need to be in bed with the need to make the knocking stop. Pants are an afterthought, and Jean doesn’t care once he finally remembers them. When he opens the door, Marco is standing there with a plastic grocery bag in his hand, fully dressed and wide awake. He looks surprised at the sight of a half-woken Jean.

“You said noon, right?” Marco says, looking around.

“For what?” Jean asks, clearing his throat and blinking the sleep from his eyes. There’s a Marco in his doorway, and that’s something to wake up for. Or try to, at least.

“Taking your friend around.”

“Oh,” Jean says, looking back at Eren, who’s tangled in a blanket on the couch. “I didn’t think you’d really come.”

“Ah,” Marco says, deflating. “Sorry, I just—“

“No, it’s fine,” Jean says, waving his hand and opening the door wider. He grabs Marco by the wrist to pull him in.  “Babysitting Eren is a team sport.”

“But really, if it’s a problem, then—”

“No,” Jean says, too tired for subtlety. “I’d never ask, but if you’re offering and… you know, dressed,” Jean says, waving at Marco’s general appearance. His t-shirt is perfectly tight around his strong chest and the jeans wrap around the girth of his muscular thighs. “Uh… then. You know.” Jean blanks. Marco’s thighs and chest have blanked him. Fuck. “That’s more than I am.”

“Good,” Marco says with a smile.

“Yeah,” Jean says. He looks around, trying to find something, _anything_ , to kickstart his brain. Eren is the first thing he processes. “Wake up!” Eren groans but doesn’t move. Jean rolls his eyes and shoves Eren’s body with his foot.

“Fuck off,” Eren mumbles, burying his face into the couch.

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you tired!?” Jean yells, leaning down close to Eren’s ear. “Because fuck knows I’d hate to bother you!”

“God,” Eren says with a whine. He pulls the pillow over his head. “Please, Jean.”

“Yeah, beg, you little shit,” Jean says.

“Should I…” Marco says. “I don’t know. Leave?”

“No,” Jean says, determined. “Nothing a shower and coffee won’t fix.”

“Fuck yourself,” Eren says. Jean clenches his jaw.

“Help me?” Jean asks Marco. Jean walks around to the back of the couch, pointing for Marco to take the other side. Marco looks confused as Jean puts his hands on the back of the couch. “We dump his ass on three. One, two—“

“Jean, I swear I’ll—“ Eren yelps as the couch flips forwards. His body, tangled in the blanket, lands on the ground with a thud. “You motherfucker!” Eren struggles to free himself from the blanket, thrashing his limbs as best he can with a hangover. Jean can’t help but laugh at Eren’s infantile flailing, something between an upturned turtle and a baby monkey.

 

* * *

 

Jean sits on the couch, cell phone in hand. Eren is in a warm shower, coffee is brewing, and Marco is making a breakfast that smells delicious, because Marco is perfect and a morning person and why _wouldn’t_ he be able to cook? Jean takes a deep breath to prepare himself. He opens his address book, Armin’s name one of the first on the list. As he taps on the name and the ringing starts, Jean leans back. When the line clicks, a silence hangs.

“Hello, Jean,” Armin finally says. Jean can feel his blood chill.

“Hey, Armin.” Jean says with an awkward laugh, trying to brighten up the conversation. “How’s things?” Another silence. “Hello?”

“What do you want, Jean?” Jean frowns. He called too soon. Armin, like any good frozen pastry, thaws fast but freezes hard. And right now he’s still pure ice.

“Eren showed up last night,” Jean says, giving up on the cheerful act.

“Figures,” Armin says.

“You two can work this out.”

“Why _should_ we work this out? Did he not tell you what he did?”

“I saw,” Jean says with a chuckle. “Not your best interview, I’ll give you that.” The line clicks. Jean checks his phone see that the call was ended, and redials the number. It goes to voicemail. He hangs up and dials again, because he’s way too tired for any more shit. This time, Armin answers.

“You two are more similar than you realize,” Armin says, voice strained as he tries to control himself. It’s a high-pitched grinding, like an engine on the verge of failure.

“What do you mean?” Jean asks.

“With Eren it’s a lack of thought before action. With you it’s a lack of thought before speaking. Do you not ever consider that maybe sarcasm _isn’t appropriate_ at times like this? That maybe you should keep your damn mouth shut if you can’t add something substantive?”

“I’m sorry,” Jean says, being very careful with his words now.

“Oh, that’s fine. You mock the most terrifying thing I’ve ever gone through, but it’s _fine_ , because you’re _sorry._ ”

“Armin…”

“No! Jean, no! It’s not okay. He shoved me out of a plane. But he’s sorry, so it’s okay!?”

“You know how he is, Armin.”

“So _that_ makes it okay. I underestimated his stupidity, so it’s okay that he can shove me out of a plane. It’s my fault, because I’m the adult. Except I’m not the _adult_ , Jean, we’re both adults. He’s older than me!”

“And you didn’t consider that maybe it would happen?” Armin goes quiet, and Jean can’t tell if it’s a dangerous quiet or a thoughtful quiet. “You went up in a plane wearing a jumpsuit and parachute.”

“You can’t be serious, Jean.”

“I don’t know, Armin. He’s an idiot. What else do you want me to say?”

“Nothing,” Armin says. The conversation dies. It’s a thirty second pause with both sides ready to hang up.

“Armin,” Jean says. “Is this really what you want it to end it over?”

“If not this, then what?” It’s a question that hangs when asked, floating on the tundra winds of desperation. Armin doesn’t know the answer, and Jean knows it’s where the conversation starts.

“Then plenty of things. He didn’t cheat on you, did he? He didn’t stop loving you. He made a series of horrible decisions. Welcome to Eren 101. He never put you in _actual_ danger.”

“I fell from 10,000 feet.”

“Well, yeah, but there’s worse things in a relationship. They aren’t all as flashy as nonconsensual skydiving lessons, but there _are_ worse things.” Armin sighs into the line. It’s long and wavering and the first sign of progress. “Right?”

“How sorry is he?” Armin asks.

“He went through the alcohol reserves of two apartments. He hasn’t even called me horse face.” It’s a quiet suspense as Armin thinks. “Please, Armin, I will make him as sorry as you want. I will break him if that’s what it takes. But you two are stronger than a single skydive.”

“You’re just tired of babysitting him.”

“Yes, and I’d be a pretty big asshole if that was the only reason I cared.”

“You _are_ an asshole, Jean,” Armin says. Jean sneers.

“I didn’t do anything to either of you, but I get saddled with Eeyore Jaeger and get called an asshole on top of that? Yeah, I’m not really thrilled with babysitting him, but if your only reason for tossing away a relationship is that I have a vested interest, then—”

 “Fine,” Armin says with a loud huff. Jean grins to himself. “Just… whatever. Have him here at 8:00. With an apology. An _elegant_ apology.”

“Eren? _Elegant_?”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding, Jean?” The frozen edge is back in Armin’s voice. Jean makes the first smart decision of the morning and walks it back.

“No,” Jean says, pulling his fingers through his hair. “I’ll… try.”

“You’ll _do_ it or you have a roommate for a week.” _Room._ Bathroom. Shit.

“Yeah,” Jean says, looking over towards the bathroom door, the shower still running.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just left Eren in a shower and he might have drowned. Drunks and showers, natural enemies,” Jean says as he hops up off of the couch. Maybe it’s Jean’s imagination, but Armin’s pause could be taken as concern. That means Armin cares, right?

“Jean, 8:00,” Armin says with a sigh.

 “Yeah, sure.” He clicks the phone and walks to the bathroom door, knocking. When Eren doesn’t answer, Jean eases the door open. Eren is standing in front of the shower’s open door, a towel around his waist, steam filling the room. “You okay?”

“He hates me,” Eren says. Jean fights the urge to shove him into the shower. He reaches in to turn the water off.

“He doesn’t.”

“I threw him out of a plane.”

“And he gave us until 8:00 to figure out something for that.” Eren turns around, a sign of life in his eyes.

“You talked to him? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. I mean, he’s pissed, but he answered the phone.” _Twice._ “We’ll work on it when you’re done, okay?” Eren frowns but nods. “And stop wasting the water. Whales need it for things.”

“You’d know,” Eren says. Jean glares.

“I don’t know what that’s referring to, and you better hope I don’t figure it out. And keep your dimwit mouth closed. If turkeys are dumb enough to drown in the rain, God knows you’ll drown in a shower.” Jean slams the door behind him, listening for the water to start again before walking away. As Jean walks into the kitchen, the smells of breakfast draw a growl from his stomach. Marco is washing the dishes. Plates of omelets and bacon and buttered toast sit on the counter. “Fuck, that smells good.”

“Thanks,” Marco says with a smile. Jean grabs a fork to take a bite, but Marco plucks it from his hand.

“Hey!”

“Have to wait for everyone,” Marco says.

“But it’s my kitchen.”

“And I cooked the food.” Jean stares at him.

“But I own everything,” Jean says. Marco chuckles.

“Fair point.” Jean puts his hand out for the fork. Marco looks at the hand, then over to the plates of food. He reaches out and shakes Jean’s hand, dropping the fork into the sink.

“You…,”Jean says. _Fucker. Piece of shit. Bastard. Asshole._ Jean looks into Marco’s eyes. Marco looks back into Jean’s, watching his reaction. So honest and warm and innocent, like a fucking puppy. Jean can’t help as he smiles and laughs. “Fine. I’ll wait.” He says it as harsh and annoyed as he can, but the smile ruins it all.

“Thank you,” Marco says. Jean can’t rationalize away the warmth he feels at making Marco happy, even over something so simple. Marco turns to set the table. Jean looks at Marco’s ass, then intentionally looks _not_ at Marco’s ass.

“So, is etiquette the only reason I’m banned from my own food? Because, I mean, it’s Eren. He doesn’t know what etiquette is.” Marco gives a small laugh at that.

“Maybe. But my mother never started a meal before everyone was at the table. She said it was one of the worst things you can do as a host.”

“Pretty sure it’s not,” Jean says. “Killing your guest is.”

“I said _one of_ the worst.” Jean leans back against the counter.

“So where is it on the list? Because Eren used to draw on my face with a marker at night. He’d take pictures of it and spread them around the school. If that’s higher on the list, does he not forfeit us eating before him?”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Marco says. Jean grins.

“But you don’t _know_.”

“The point is that your hosting is reflected by your actions, not by the _context_ of your actions. You being a good host shouldn’t depend on it being Eren or…”

“You.” Jean regrets it immediately. The faintest dusting of red shines behind Marco’s freckles.

“R-right. You’re either a good host or a bad host. You aren’t a good host if it’s me and a bad host if it’s Eren.” Jean nods and watches as Marco cleans the pans.

“So where’d you learn to cook like this?” Jean asks.

“My mother. She wanted us able to do at least basic things.”

“This is basic?” Jean looks over at the omelets and bacon. Jean didn’t have most of the ingredients, like the eggs, bacon, butter, or ham and peppers in the omelets, which means Marco had them in the bag he brought over.

“Compared to her, yes.”

“Are you still close?” Marco frowns and sets the dish down. Jean tilts his head. The pained look on Marco’s face is faint but noticeable, a flicker of the immutable light that is Marco Bott. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” Marco forces a smile and shrugs his shoulders.

“We don’t talk as much as I’d like. Work keeps me busy.” The shower turns off.

“Yet you have the time for tag-team babysitting,” Jean says with a smirk. Marco smiles.

“It isn’t much trouble,” Marco says. Eren walks out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, wandering into the kitchen.

“That smells good,” Eren says, the towel nearly falling as he reaches for a slice of buttered toast.

“Clothes, Eren!” Jean shoves him towards the bedroom, Eren’s towel dropping during the scuffle.

“Dammit, Jean, ask before you touch!” The slamming of the door is followed by the loud smack of a punch to Eren’s wet arm.

 

* * *

 

Jean, Eren, and Marco walk into the flower shop at 2:00 in the afternoon. The peace of a room filled with delicate petals in every color is shattered as Jean drags Eren by the arm and shoves him through the doorway. He’s rougher than necessary, which is warranted after a car ride of Eren telling Marco the most embarrassing stories he has about Jean.

“Jean, this is so gay,” Eren says, whining.

“Yeah, _that’s_ the gay part in this,” Jean says. Marco walks over to occupy the attendant while Jean keeps his voice down to a harsh whisper. “Not the part where you want your boyfriend back for butt sex, it’s the _flower_ part. Suck it up, Jaeger.”

“Don’t beg, Jean.” Jean is just about to twist Eren’s arm behind his back when Marco walks up. 

“She said to let her know when we’ve decided,” Marco says. “So what’s his favorite flower?” Eren blinks a few times.

“Roses?” Eren asks with a shrug.

“Do you know what color his favorite flower is?”

“He barely knows what a flower is,” Jean says.

“Purple,” Eren says as he throws an elbow at Jean. “I do know that. Or… maybe it was blue?” Marco nods, brows furrowed. He looks around the shop for ideas.

“I… don’t know what flower that would be. So what if we got apology flowers instead?”

“Like what?” Eren asks.

“Well, traditionally a purple hyacinth is a sorrowful apology, and a red carnation is longing. Maybe get a bouquet of those?”

“You’re making that up,” Jean says with a laugh.

“Making what up?” Marco asks, confused.

“The flower shit,” Jean says.

“No, it’s the language of flowers,” Marco says. “The Victorians invented it.”

“And you just happen to know all of this off the top of your head,” Jean says.

“And if I do?” Marco asks with a confident smile, leaning forward to lock eyes with Jean, daring him.

“Nothing,” Jean says. He lets out a long, deep breath when Marco laughs and pats his shoulder. Jean feels a warm tingle run up his spine at the touch.

“It’s good to know things, Jean. It’s coming in handy right now, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Jean says. The attendant goes into the back room to work on the bouquet.

“The hyacinth has an interesting story behind it,” Marco says, looking around the shop while they wait.

“Yeah?” Jean asks. Eren slumps against the counter, flipping through Facebook on his phone. He’s on Armin’s page, looking through the pictures of them together. Jean resists the urge to take the phone away.

“It’s named after Hyakinthos, a Greek prince. The story is that he was the lover of Apollo, but was also loved by the jealous Zephyr, the West Wind. One day, Apollo and Hyakinthos were throwing a discus around in a field. Zephyr was so bitter that he blew an awkward wind. Hyakinthos ran to catch it, but was struck in the head and killed. Apollo was devastated and grew the hyacinth from his lover’s blood. The white stains on a hyacinth are said to be the tears of Apollo that fell onto the petals.”

“So then it’s perfect,” Jean says.

“You think so?” Marco asks.

“Yeah. Gay guys, sadness, death by the wind. That sums this up pretty well.” Marco laughs, and Jean loves the way that Marco’s whole face lights up as he laughs, like the sky on a summer day. “Anything interesting about the carnation?”

“Not as far as I know.” Jean glances over at Eren, who’s still looking through his phone.

“So should I read into the fact you knew the gay love story behind a flower?” Jean asks. Marco looks over Jean’s face very carefully, finally giving a measured but genuine smile.

“You can read whatever you want into that, Jean. It was a tragedy, though, not a love story.”

“Same difference,” Jean says, waving his hand.

“Except that one ends with a happy ever after and the other ends with a depressed skull fracture caused by an errant discus. But yeah, same difference.” Jean gives Marco the finger just as two older women walk in the store. He cusses under his breath as he hides his hand. Marco laughs. Jean laughs a little as well. They share a smile as the women walk over to the orchids, one of them casting a nasty glance at Jean. As the laughter fades, the attendant comes out carrying a single hyacinth in the center of a dozen red carnations. Jean isn’t a flower guy, but he has to admit that it’s impressive. As Marco reaches for the flowers, his arm bumps a butterfly-shaped sign. While Marco struggles to handle the bouquet, Jean reaches to balance the sign.

“What’s this?” Marco asks the attendant, picking up a brochure that had fallen.

“The botanical gardens just finished an exotic butterfly exhibit,” she says. “The opening is this weekend.”

“Is this something Armin would like?” Marco asks, handing the brochure to Eren.

“I think he was talking about it,” Eren says. “Something about wishing I wasn’t an impulsive, indelicate…” Eren drops his head, frowning. Marco hands him the brochure.

“So then you take him,” Marco says with a smile. When Eren looks up, Marco puts his hand on Eren’s shoulder. Jean watches them, wishing it were him. Wishing that he could have a moment with Marco so warm and so personal, a smile from Marco that would make his heart take in a single, giant, once-in-a-lifetime breath. Eren nods and tucks it into his pocket. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Eren says. He’s got a constipated look, his brow tight, mouth pinched. It’s the face he made during his mother’s funeral, his trying-not-to-cry face. Jean knows what he has to do. He puts a hand on Eren’s shoulder, just like Marco.

“Eren,” Jean says. Eren’s mouth pinches more, but he lifts his eyes to meet Jean’s.

“Be careful not to kill them with your dopey little sausage fingers.”

“Fuck you, horse face!” Eren’s first punch is a glancing blow on Jean’s cheek, enough to sting without leaving a mark. They walk out of the store with Eren thrashing at Jean – but not crying – while Marco walks behind them a few feet, protecting the flowers. 

 

* * *

 

Jean has to push Eren off of the elevator, walking behind him so he doesn’t change his mind. With Marco and his friends at a hockey game, the gravity of the situation is crushing. The walk down the hallway to Eren’s apartment is somewhere between the walk to an execution chamber and walking to the prom date’s front door. When they stop at Eren’s apartment, Jean checks his watch.

“7:58,” Jean says. “Not bad.”

“But he said 8:00?” Eren asks.

“It’s fine.”

“But he said 8:00, Jean.”

“He has to walk to the door, and that might take two minutes.”

“He said 8:00, Jean. You said he said 8:00.”

“Fine!” Jean says, throwing his arms up, because he had to do _something_ about the urge to punch Eren. “We’ll stand here for two minutes. We’ll just fucking _stand here_. Doing _nothing_ , because that’s the mature thing to—” The apartment door opens. Armin is standing there, frowning and quiet. Eren freezes up, his mouth open but nothing coming out. Jean starts to save him, but fights the urge. It isn’t his place.

“I, uh,” Eren says, looking down and around and anywhere but Armin’s eyes. “I got you things.”

“Things,” Armin says, saying the word like a bad taste.

“Yeah. Like, flowers,” Eren says as he hands them to Armin. Armin looks at them closely. “They mean stuff.” Armin looks up, his expression one of confusion mixed with disbelief. Jean pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Tell him what they mean,” Jean says.

“So, like, they mean I’m really, really sorry, and that I love more you more than anything in this entire world. The purple one is because it’s named after some Greek guy. His boyfriend accidentally killed him with a Frisbee.”

“Nope,” Jean says under his breath, shaking his head.

“And his boyfriend was so sad about killing him that he grew the flowers from his blood, and watered them with his tears.” Jean shakes his head again. “Cause that’s how sorry I am. If anything had happened, I would have grown a whole field of flowers like that. And, look,” he says as he pulls out the brochure. “I wanted to take you to the flower thing. With the butterflies. Cause, like, it’s me. I’m just a caterpillar right now, but if you help me then I can be a butterfly. Just, please don’t give up on me. Please, Armin, I couldn’t live without you.” Eren’s voice is breaking, tears welling in his eyes. His whole body is tense, like he’s willing Armin’s response. Armin looks at Eren, then to the flowers, then to Jean.

“That last part was all him,” Jean says.

“He did this?” Armin asks. Eren looks to Jean, desperate. Jean doesn’t look at Eren. He looks straight at Armin, crossing his arms.

“The flowers? No. The butterflies? Sorta. The card, yes, but we made sure it was appropriate. And he cried while writing it, so it might not be legible.”

“So when I expected—“

“You were deluded.” Armin glares, but Jean doesn’t give him an inch. “I mean, what the fuck do you think he does when you throw him out? That he goes clubbing and forgets you exist? Dragging him to the flower shop was as depressing as escorting an Eeyore mascot to a funeral, because the thought of you not being in his life sucks the soul out of him. You don’t see that side of him, so you don’t get it, because as long as you’re around there _isn’t_ that side of him.”

“Jean,” Eren says, but Jean barely hears it above the rush in his ears. If you need a pastry thawed fast, you have to blast it with heat. Jean has plenty of that saved up.

“The only thing that got him off the couch this morning was the _chance_ that you might take him back. He would _still_ be trying to drink himself unconscious if not for that, because the pain of losing you is not bearable while sober. So if you have a problem with us helping him get this together, then tough fucking shit, because it’s _delusion_ to expect a man in a coma to run a marathon. And that’s what he’s in right now, an emotional coma. Yeah, some days I wonder that he’s actually brain dead, but he’s Eren. I know how he is, and you know how he is. And no, that doesn’t excuse his moments of monumental stupidity, but he’s spent the last twenty-four hours suffering over the thought that he might have lost you forever. How much more of a punishment do you think he deserves?” Armin frowns and looks away. Eren is watching Armin, each breath a conscious effort. Armin rubs his eyes with his arm.

“Please,” Eren says, so desperate and so fragile that he might break under the weight of his own voice. Armin walks forward and wraps his arms around Eren.

“I’m sorry,” Armin says. Eren hugs Armin tight, pulling him close and burying his face in Armin’s neck.

“No, I am. I swear, no more parachuting. And no more surprises. And I’ll think before I do stuff.”

“No you won’t,” Jean is quick to say. “Don’t promise that.” Armin rubs Eren’s back.

“It’s okay,” Armin whispers in Eren’s ear. Eren shakes his head, but Armin kisses along the rim of his ear. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” Armin looks over Eren’s shoulder at Jean, giving him a tired smile. Jean waves his hand as Armin pulls Eren into the apartment, closing the door.

 

* * *

 

Jean is laying on the couch, reading the rules of hockey on his laptop while watching the game on T.V. Each time the camera pans the crowd, Jean tries to find Marco and his friends, but has so far had no luck. All he can see is an amorphous mass behind tall glass panes that surround the rink.

The hockey game is much different than Jean had expected. The first and only fight happened in the final period, even with all of the aggressive body slams being thrown. The other penalties were for lesser things that Jean can’t quite understand. “Interference” apparently means hitting someone, yet all they seem to be doing is hitting each other without getting penalties. Beyond that, the game seems to be just skating back and forth, stopping when the goalie crumples over, and trying to follow an invisible puck across the screen.

After overtime, which apparently means taking one player from each team off of the ice and playing another period, Jean finds himself watching a shootout. After taking turns shooting at each other’s goals, it’s the third and final shooter for the Royals that ends the game, beating the Surveyors 1-0. As the announcers discuss the significance of a shutout against the Surveyors, Jean sets his laptop down and stretches his arms, walking around a bit. He thinks about Marco and how comfortable he looked in the sweatshirt that night, hoping that the loss isn’t spoiling such a wonderful face. He grabs a drink from the fridge and settles back onto the couch, changing the channel to re-runs of Frasier. He falls asleep thinking of being held by Marco.

When Jean wakes up an hour later, it’s barely enough for him to make it into the bedroom. But when he lays down on the bed, he can’t go back to sleep. He can’t stop thinking about Marco. How he wants to thank him, and talk to him, and relax against him. He wants to sit and listen to Marco for hours. It’s an attraction he’s never experienced, an addiction so strong that anything physical is subsumed by the urge to just _be_ with him. He doesn’t even know if Marco is coming home tonight. Jean watches the headlights of passing cars drift across his wall, one by one. He checks his watch. 2:30.

Jean kicks off the covers. He thinks to the first time he met Marco. The officially official first time, stuck on the door to the stairwell. The view of the city is relaxing, Marco had said. Jean slips on his shoes and walks to the hallway. He puts a chair in front of the door to hold it open, remembering that Marco says it sticks. As he climbs the stairs, he thinks back to the hours he spent trying to catch Marco in a lie. The hours of his life he lost because _what_ Marco might be mattered more than _who_ he might be. It all seems insane now. Each step feels like he’s letting go of that mistake and is accepting the truth of a new friend in his life, who in two days has been nothing but helpful and wonderful and _honest_. That night and that hero are nothing in the face of Marco looking into Jean’s eyes and being honest.

When Jean opens the door, he sees Marco leaning against one of the metal ventilation ducts, a bloody handprint smeared along its length. He’s clutching the superhero mask in his fist, his forehead and an entire half of his face covered in blood like thick, wet paint. When Marco looks up, he frowns. The headlights of a car on the highway light up his chocolate eyes. His gaze drops down just as the car passes and Marco’s face dims.

“Dammit.” Marco lets the word slip out with a shallow breath as he collapses to the ground. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long update time, sorry about that. 
> 
> Sending my thoughts to anyone affected by the Pulse shooting. We're a community tougher than hate and a species with the capacity to endure. Even if it took a tragedy to show it, the world loves us more than it ever has. And yeah, I know it hurts. My boyfriend is hurting from it. I'm hurting from it. It's maybe one of the hardest things in the world, but in times of hurt and fear it's especially important to forgive and love. Not for the people who hurt us, but for ourselves and for others who are hurting. Love opens our own hearts and minds, it lifts up those who are struggling and builds a bridge to those who are too scared to love alongside us. In those ways, the world belongs to those whose hearts have the courage to love and be loved. Stay strong and love in the face of hate. The hardest things to do in life are the things most worth doing. 
> 
> "In the flush of love's light, we dare be brave. And suddenly we see that love costs all we are, and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free." -- Maya Angelou
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYRS4FQXZrk
> 
> My inbox is open to anyone who needs to talk.
> 
> And with heart to heart finished, back to Jean and Marco:

When Jean opens the door, he sees Marco leaning against one of the metal ventilation ducts, a bloody handprint smeared along its length. He’s clutching the superhero mask in his fist, his forehead and an entire half of his face covered in blood like thick, wet paint. When Marco looks up, he frowns. The headlights of a car on the highway light up his chocolate eyes. His gaze drops down just as the car passes and Marco’s face dims.

“Dammit.” Marco lets the word slip out with a shallow breath as he collapses to the ground.

Jean moves to Marco's side in a daze, lumbering forward and dropping onto his knees next to him. He can feel the adrenaline surging through his body, the way his breath quickens and his vision tunnels, numbness creeping from the tip of each finger and toe and spreading through his limbs. The air is static from the streetlights and the heartbeat of passing trucks, until Marco starts to fade. Jean pats Marco’s un-bloodied cheek when his eyes close.

“Wake up. Don’t go to sleep.” Marco’s eyes crack open again, a ragged breath passing through his lips before he lets out a weak, wet cough.

“I’m fine,” Marco says with a slur, his head lolling, his eyes glazing before he blinks it away. He tries to stand up, putting his hand against the ventilation duct and shifting his weight forward. But the blood causes his hand to lose its grip, one long smear painting the metal as Marco falls forward again. Jean moves in front of Marco and holds him as best he can, half catching him and half breaking his fall.

“Stay with me, Marco,” Jean says, grunting as he tries to shift the bulk of Marco's weight onto his shoulders. Marco is solid muscle, his mass like a lifeless side of beef fallen off a meat hook. It's by the factor of surging adrenaline that Jean's smaller, thinner frame carries Marco towards the stairwell one tedious and agonizing step at a time.  Even then, Jean's entire body is limp from the effort by the time they’re to the stairwell. He leans them against the wall, panting, his heartbeat pounding in his ears and through his skull. He groans when he opens the door and looks down the flight of stairs.

“Leave me here, Jean.” Marco is lucid, but barely so.

“Give me a minute.” Jean reaches to run his fingers through his hair, but a flash of red makes him realize that his hand is covered in Marco’s blood. When he looks, blood has soaked through the entire shoulder and side of his shirt. Another wave of cold, sick numbness takes him over. “God…”

“Jean,” Marco says, his eyes unfixing for a split second. He blinks a few times and leans against the wall, taking slow and shallow breaths. Jean waits, but whatever Marco had to say is lost in the fog creeping at the edges of his pupils. Jean reaches down and into his pocket for his cellphone. He pulls it out and starts to dial 911, only for Marco to reach forward with a groan and claw it from his hand, a sudden sign of life that surprises Jean. The phone clatters down each step of the stairwell. “No.”

“Marco, you—”

“I said no.” Marco is gritting his teeth. He lets out a pained grunt and wobbles, trying to walk on his own only to lose his balance. Jean strains to correct them both, teetering at the top of the stairwell.

“Then what do I do?" Jean asks. Marco is breathing hard through his nose, his eyes screwed shut. "Who do I call, dammit!?” Jean shifts Marco's weight against the wall and starts towards the hallway. Marco’s hand shoots forward to grab Jean’s wrist. The grasp is powerful in strength and infantile in need, and even though his grip weakens after a few seconds, Marco doesn’t let go. Jean sits next to him and punches his balled fist into the concrete of the stairs. He's clenching his teeth tight, fighting through the sapping helplessness threatening to overwhelm him. “Tell me what to do, Marco.”

“I’ll be okay, Jean," Marco says. Jean shakes his head.

“Tell me what to do,” he says again.

“Leave me here,” Marco says, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall.

“Dammit, Marco!” Marco’s eyes open, looking into Jean’s. Jean stares back, breathing hard. The concrete is collapsing underneath him, the darkness of the stairwell smothering him from all sides.  He crawls down in front of Marco, gripping the railing tight.

“Lean on me. And just… don’t fall,” Jean says, looking down the fifteen stairs to the hallway. It’s a few seconds before he feels an arm wrap around his body and Marco’s chest press against his back. When Jean stands up, holding most of Marco’s weight, they teeter, testing to find the right balance. On just the first step Marco’s body feels like it’s crushing Jean from behind. He almost falls, gripping the railing and bracing himself with both arms. Each awkward step is the same, both a flash of terror as he feels like they'll tumble headlong down the stairs, then a sigh of relief as he balances them again on the new step.

When Jean reaches the bottom, he kicks the door open with his foot. Too exhausted to yell for help, he hopes the bang that resounds down the length of the hallway will wake someone up. He starts towards his own apartment, knowing the door is open, but Marco steers him towards his own with a sudden shift, nearly dragging Jean to the floor.

“Left pocket,” Marco says, his voice barely above a whisper. Jean can’t tell if it’s an uncontrollable consideration for his neighbors or lack of strength. He reaches into Marco's pocket, pulling out a keyring with the Surveyor’s logo. With their last few steps, Jean helps Marco into the apartment before they collapse on the couch, Marco’s blood leaving a head-shaped stain as he leans over onto his side. Jean stands there, watching him. Marco closes his eyes.

“Wake up,” Jean says, kneeling down next to him.

“I’m fine,” Marco says. Jean laughs, dark and dry and deep in his throat.

“Don’t you fucking tell me you’re fine.” Marco lets out a long sigh into the arm his head is resting on.

“Jean, please.”

“Please what? Tell me what to do, Marco.”

“It’s just a cut.”

“Damn you!” Jean says, standing up. Marco’s eyes drift open. “Damn you and your fucking… savior complex or whatever it is that’s wrong with you!" Jean is breathing through his nose and clenched teeth, looking around for something to punch or throw or do. "Do you want to die? Is that why…? Just…” Jean's shoulders fall and he drops to his knees, grabbing Marco’s bloody hand. “Please, Marco. Please don’t do this.”

“Jean.” Even as Marco fades, his voice is firm, his face fixed with more seriousness than the aggregate of their time together. When Jean is listening, Marco's smile creeps across the corner of his lips. “I’ll be okay, Jean. I'll heal."

“What do I do?” Jean asks, begging. The adrenaline and emergency can't hide it anymore: Jean is scared and vulnerable. "Please, Marco."

“Nothing. Just… don’t leave,” Marco says with one last whisper as his eyes close. He’s squeezing Jean’s hand as his breathing evens out, his body going soft. "Just don't leave me, Jean." Jean swallows hard and nods. He stays there, watching Marco’s nostrils move with each breath, listening to the wisps of air that pass through his parted lips. Jean squeezes Marco’s hand tight and rests his forehead on the cushion of the couch, forcing away the smell of iron that fills his nose and mouth and chest.

The next hour is a marathon more than anything else, of patience and suspense and egging Marco's consciousness closer. Jean searches the kitchen for two washcloths, wetting them and wiping the blood from Marco’s cheek as gently as he can. It takes both washcloths, but Marco’s face is only a light pink when Jean finishes. The couch underneath Marco is ruined, along with Jean’s shirt and pants. But none of it – not the blood or time of night or broken phone – matter as much to Jean as the way Marco's chest moves in his sleep, or the way his limp fingers lightly curl against the couch's fabric. Jean takes Marco's hand into his own and presses those fingers against his forehead.

When he can't take the waiting anymore, Jean stands up. He walks to the front door and up to the roof, finding his cellphone at the base of the stairs. It turns on, but the screen is shattered into a thousand glass shards that are stuck to the screen protector. Jean frowns and sets it on the step for later. When he reaches the roof, it numbs him all over again: darkness, silence pulsed by trucks, the bloody handprint smeared along the entire length of the ventilation shaft. Jean tries to ignore the way it feels like the autopsy of a massacre, that he's cataloging the aftermath because there's nothing else meaningful to be done. The mask is exactly where Marco had dropped it, while Jean finds the backpack on the ground almost ten feet away. Bloody fingerprints dot the fabric around the zipper where Marco had struggled to open it. Inside, Jean finds a pre-paid cellphone, rope, zip ties, and a well-stocked first aid kit.  With both in hand, Jean walks back down to Marco's apartment, making sure both doors to the roof are secure.

Marco is still resting on the couch, his breathing as even as when Jean left. Jean walks into the apartment's small hallway, peeking his head into the closet and bathroom before finally finding Marco's bedroom. It's the messiest of all the rooms, with clothes lumped in a basket by the dresser, sheets unmade, empty cups from fast food restaurants on the night stand, and Marco's laptop sitting on the floor with a pile of criminal justice books. Jean sets the backpack and mask at the foot of the bed. He grabs one of Marco's pillows and walks back into the living room, stopping by the closet for a blanket and second pillow. He does his best to be quiet as he walks back to the couch, and frowns at the way Marco is taking punchy breaths and scrunching his nose in pain.

Jean puts the blanket over Marco. He reaches to lift up Marco's head and slip the pillow underneath, but can't bring himself to wake Marco up or risk hurting him. He puts it beside Marco's chest instead, dropping the second pillow down onto the floor for himself. Once he's laying down, Jean looks up and sees Marco's fingers peeking over the side of the cushion. As his body crashes hard from the intensity of the night, Jean reaches up and squeezes Marco's fingers. Just as he feels himself drifting off, Jean could swear he feels Marco squeezing back.

 

* * *

 

Jean wakes up to the faint click of the bathroom doorknob and an unfamiliar softness wrapped around his shoulders. The pillow has as firmness that presses back against his cheek, unlike his own, and the cushions are pressing his body in all the wrong places to be a bed. But it’s the smell, something soft like cedar and deep like the rain, which fills his lungs with a satisfying warmth that has him jolting upright.

“Marco!” Jean rips the blanket off, the same blanket he’d put over Marco the night before. He grabs for his shoes and struggles to get them onto his feet. The bedroom door opens, Marco wearing a t-shirt and boxers as he rubs his hair with a towel.

“Woah,” Marco says with a laugh, “relax. You’re fine.” Jean is breathing hard. He blinks a few times, looking over Marco's body for blood or wounds.

"You're okay?"

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Marco asks, smiling. Jean squints and rubs his eyes.

“Because you weren't last night." Marco shakes his head and shrugs.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Jean.” Jean looks at him, confused. “You weren’t feeling well last night. I brought you down from the roof.”

“No,” Jean says, standing up. “No, you were bleeding. You had your mask on.”

“Mask?” Marco asks with a small laugh. He’s bright, chirpy even. Jean doesn't miss the way Marco keeps himself busy, but pauses to watch Jean's each reaction.

“Your mask, Marco. Don’t bullshit me."

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jean.” Jean sets his jaw.

"Are we really doing this?" Marco is pouring two glasses of milk. "I caught you, so stop fucking with me. You were bleeding and I brought you down from the roof."

“I was not, Jean.” Jean grabs at his shirt, nearly tearing it as he claws at the fabric.

“It’s on me and my shirt, you jackass! It's on my pants! It’s on the couch,” Jean says. He turns to the couch, ripping off the blankets that are covering the cushions. Large bloodstains blot the fabric. Jean drops the blanket onto the floor, watching Marco sip from his glass.

“Reiner had a nosebleed the other night," Marco says. "I haven’t had a chance to clean the couch. It got on you, I’m sorry.” Jean stares at him.

“That’s… that’s not even how blood works," Jean says, not sure whether to laugh or scream. “Why are you doing this?” Marco walks over and puts a hand on Jean’s shoulder.

“I’m not doing anything, Jean. You’re confused, you had a bad night. Do you want any breakfast?”

“No,” Jean says, knocking Marco’s hand off of his shoulder. “I want you to stop screwing with me.”

“Jean, I’m not—“

“Do I look dumb to you?" His voice cracks on his dry throat. Marco frowns.

“I don’t think you’re dumb, Jean.”

“Then stop, Marco. Just stop. It’s over. You snowed me once, great, but last night happened. So now it's out there.” Marco shakes his head.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, Jean, but we need—” Jean walks past him, towards Marco's bedroom. “Jean?” Jean shoves the door open, Marco’s bedroom in the same condition it was the night before, with the exception of a missing backpack and mask. Jean checks the laundry basket and wardrobe for bloody clothes. He pulls open the closet door and starts digging through it.

“Where is it?” Jean asks.

“A shirt?” Jean drops the jacket he’s pulled off of its hanger.

“Your mask!” Marco stares, stunned.

“Jean, this… is not appropriate. You need to get out of my bedroom.” Jean can’t help the laugh that slips out of his chest with a harsh breath.

“It’s not appropriate? What part, Marco? The part where I’m covered in your blood that I spent last night watching you choke on?” Jean closes the distance, shoving Marco’s solid chest. When the push doesn’t budge Marco at all, Jean hits Marco’s arm with a balled fist. “The part where you lied to my face and are acting like I’m having some break with reality!? Tell me, Bott, which is the inappropriate part?” Marco is quiet for what feels like minutes.

“… the part where you’re emptying my closet?” Jean feels body goes numb, his head spinning. Pissed, exhausted, impatient, it's all swirling and far too much.

“This… what will it take? I _know_ , Marco. You're a superhero. It's out there now. How much further does this have to go?" When Marco stares back at him, Jean starts for the door.

"Jean?"

"You didn't clean the blood off of the roof," Jean says. He's angry and walking fast, but Marco catches him by the shoulder. Jean stops, but doesn't turn. "Or did Reiner have another nosebleed?" Jean waits as tension boils the silence, until he finally reaches to open the door. Just as he turns the knob and pulls it open, Marco reaches forward and slams it closed with his hand. When Jean looks over his shoulder, Marco’s lips and brow are tight, his eyes firm.

"Why are you doing this, Jean?" Marco’s voice is deep and desperate.

"I'm not asking you for anything I don't deserve, Marco." Marco shakes his head.

"I don't owe you this, Jean."

"Then what do I get? Other than lied to?" Jean turns enough to get in Marco's face. "Other than made an ass of in front of my friend because you couldn't come clean the first time? And fuck all of that, what do I get for dragging your bloody ass down off of the roof? What do I get for hours of listening to your blood rattling in your lungs and begging God that I didn't kill you by not calling an ambulance!?" Marco doesn't answer. Marco can't answer. Jean waits, but Marco looks away.

"This wasn't how it was supposed to go," Marco says.

"Then what was the plan?" Jean asks.

"That you never find out."

"Well that's just a brilliant plan right there!" Jean says, flailing his arms.

"You can't know," Marco says, begging, holding Jean by the shoulders.

“Oh, I can’t? Alright, let me just get some brain damage really fast and forget the last twelve hours," Jean says, glaring. Marco is staring back, lost in the struggle to accept it all. “I can’t un-know it, Marco. It’s over. It’s done. It’s gone. Yesterday was a closet and you are out of it now. And yeah, sure, I can see how that might inconvenience you, but tough titties, Charlene, cause I know!"

“No, you don’t know,” Marco says, his body tense, brows pinching, frown returning. Jean starts to argue, but realizes that Marco is talking about something else entirely. There's a knock at the door behind Jean.

"Then tell me," Jean says. He reaches out to put his own hand on Marco's shoulder, but Marco knocks it away.

“If I could tell you, Jean, then I wouldn't have worked so hard to keep you from knowing."

"Marco–"

"Get out.” Jean recoils.

“Get out?”

“Of my apartment,” Marco says, opening the door. A man with blond hair, perfectly shaped like a Ken doll, stands in the doorway, an immaculate eyebrow arching at Jean.

“You’re throwing me out?” Jean asks, his voice raising. Marco doesn’t react. “You’re seriously throwing me out?” Marco looks him in the eyes at first, but looks away under the weight of Jean's building fury. Jean is shaking as he drags in a breath. Marco waits, his body cornering Jean into the doorway. “You fucking asshole,” Jean finally says as he turns towards the door. “You dumbass, fucking bastard! I gave half a shit about you, so I get lied to for it? Then I drag your beaten ass down here, and you throw me out!? Fine," Jean says, seething. "Should have left your bleeding ass for some drugged up super thug to find!”

“Jean,” Marco says, a tinge of regret in his voice as he reaches out to stop Jean. Jean punches his hand away.

“Fuck you!” Jean flips Marco off as he turns to leave and all but shoulders the Ken doll out of his way, rounding the corner to his own apartment door. When he kicks the door open, it slams the wall and bounces back, rattling from the impact. Jean leaves it open as he storms into his bedroom, pitching his cellphone across the apartment. He changes into the first set of clothes he can find and grabs his keys from the dresser. When he walks back to the hallway, Marco is standing there next to the blond man.

“Jean, I’m sorry,” Marco says as Jean locks his door. Jean’s hands are shaking so hard it takes him an extra turn of the key for the lock to catch. “Jean, where are you going?” When Jean tries to leave, Marco half blocks him with his body. Jean shoves him with both hands, using his entire body weight. This time it moves Marco backwards.

“Fuck yourself,” Jean says, walking down the stairs. “With something long and sharp!"

 

* * *

 

As Jean rides the elevator up to Eren’s apartment, he reaches for his phone out of habit, each time mumbling another string of things Marco can put up his ass. When the elevator doors slide open, Jean walks to Eren's door and rings the bell. He stands there, baking in his own anger as he waits, his phone-less hand driving him more insane with each second. He rings the bell again, but still no answer.

“Eren!” Jean yells. He rings the bell a third time and counts to five. When there's still no Eren, Jean starts kicking the door with his foot and jabbing the buzzer repeatedly. “Open the door!" Even when someone from another apartment yells at him, Jean doesn’t stop. “Open the door, Eren! I swear to fuck I’ll stay here all night!” When the door finally opens, Eren is standing there, dazed and snarling. He's out of breath, a sheen of sweet coating his body. An erection is tenting his boxers and precum darkens the fabric. Jean stares, an eyebrow twitching as he waits for the aneurism to take him.

Eren slams the door closed and latches the lock.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating increased to Explicit as we start getting into sexual content. My boyfriend is very unhappy that I kept Eren and Armin's sex off camera. Maybe it doesn't need the increase right now, but it eventually will.

Eren slams the door closed and latches the lock.

Jean stands there. He closes his eyes and waits for the universe to put him out of his misery with one deft stroke of cosmic judgment, because if anything else could have possibly gone wrong it _would_ have been a mid-coitus Eren slamming a door in his face. There’s shuffling inside the apartment before a robed Armin opens the door.

“Are you okay?” Armin asks, taking Jean by the wrist and leading him into the apartment.

“Just kill me,” Jean says, shaking his head.

“Tempted,” Eren says, leaning against the door to their bedroom. “The blueballs are real right now.”

“Come here and I’ll rip them off for you,” Jean says as Armin sits him onto the couch.

“Jean?” Armin asks. Jean glares at Eren for a few seconds longer, who has his head leaned back, trying to will away his erection.

“I just need a place to stay,” Jean says, sighing. “Just… for tonight.” Armin nods and stands up, taking slow and tender steps as he walks to the closet. Eren grins a bit as he watches Armin.

"What happened?" Armin asks as he pulls out a blanket and pillow.

"Nothing," Jean says.

"Then get out," Eren says.

"Your wet dick is thanks to me, Jaeger!" Armin rubs Jean's shoulder as he sits next to him.

"You could have called," Eren says.

"No, Eren, I couldn't have," Jean says, turning his pockets out. "My phone got fucked into five different pieces!"

"Something happened," Armin says. When he leans in closer, his eyes widen. "Is that blood!?" Armin's hands move to Jean's hair, parting it to check for a wound, but Jean pulls himself away.

"I'm fine," Jean says, wrangling Armin's hands. "I just need to crash here tonight." Armin frowns, looking Jean in the eyes.

"But... you're okay?" Jean nods. Armin glances at Eren and lowers his voice. "Do you need a lawyer for anything?" Jean blinks.

"Yeah, Armin, I stabbed my drug dealer. He shorted me a gram of coke. Probably need a good one for that, right?" Armin frowns and smacks Jean on the side of the head.

"Don't be a smartass. I'm the one who opened the door," Armin says. Jean sighs. He looks at Armin, and the best thing about Armin is that he never has to say he's sorry. Armin just knows he is.

"I can't deal with it tonight, okay? I'm fine, nobody's— ... I didn't hurt anybody. I just can't be home right now." Armin watches Jean a bit longer before he nods and stands up.

"Let us know if you need anything," Armin says. Jean nods. "Feel free to shower or eat or anything else."

"Mind if I turn the TV on?" Jean says, looking back at Eren. Armin blushes.

"Sure," Armin says, finding the remote and handing it to him. "I'm sorry about it."

"Don't be," Jean says. "I shoulda known. Thanks for letting me stay." Armin nods and gives one last smile. He pats Jean's back as he walks back to Eren, who has his hands on Armin's ass before they're even through the door. Jean lays down, groaning as he adjusts the pillow. In the most fleeting of seconds, the feeling of couch cushions and blankets and a pillow make him smell something familiar, like cedar and rain. Jean feels a pulse of ice shoot through his nerves. He closes his eyes and forces it away. The feeling finally breaks when a rhythmic thumping starts in the bedroom. Jean turns on the TV, loud enough to drown the sex out, and smothers his ears with the pillow.  

 

* * *

  

Jean wakes up to a hand patting his shoulder. He shrugs it off.

"I'll get him up."

"Eren!" Jean feels the couch tilt forward before it drops back into place. Jean rubs his eyes with a groan and sits up. Armin is holding Eren's arms behind his back. "Sorry," Armin says to Jean as he lets Eren go.

"He did it to me," Eren says with a grumble as he walks to the kitchen table.

"Did you sleep well?" Armin asks, sitting on the couch by Jean.

"Once it stopped sounding like a construction project in the bedroom, yeah." Eren grins and Armin blushes.

"We got started on the couch," Eren says with a smirk. Jean glares.

"Would you like a shower?" Armin asks.

"Do I need one?" Jean asks, looking at the couch. Armin blushes again.

"Yes," Eren says. Jean flips him off and stands up. Armin stands with him, walking with Jean to the bathroom.

"I'll make some breakfast for you," Armin says, stopping him outside of the bathroom door. "Are you okay?"

"I'm..." Fine? Better? Okay? "Yeah. And thanks." Armin nods with a smile.

"Always." Jean gives a small smile back.

"What time is it?" Jean asks. "I should probably call into work."

"About 8:30," Armin says as he walks into the living room for his cellphone. "We blew today off."

"That's not the only thing you blew off," Eren yells from the kitchen. Armin shakes his head as he hands the phone to Jean.

"If I go beat up Eren, are you going to call the police for domestic abuse?"

"He's a dumbass and he fell," Jean says as he dials the phone. Armin nods. As Jean lets his office know he'll be in at 12:00, he can hear Eren's bare skin being smacked with what sounds like a spatula. When he's done, he sets the phone on the bathroom counter and starts to strip off his clothes.

The bathroom, like all of the apartment, is a blend of two opposites: Armin's thoughtful and delicate touch against Eren's complete disregard for order. Fresh towels are folded and placed on a shelf above the toilet, while three used towels have been dropped onto the floor and kicked under the sink. One toothbrush is in a holder next to a capped bottle of toothpaste, while the other is dropped onto the counter, clumps of dried toothpaste smearing the marble. It's the going rule of law in their apartment: Armin constructs, Eren deconstructs. But without Eren, Armin would be bored. And without Armin, Eren would be living off of Easy Mac and ramen.

The shower washes away the night before, but nothing is the same as his own shower. When Jean walks out of the bathroom, Armin is sitting on the kitchen counter with his legs wrapped around Eren's waist, his fingers grasping at Eren's back as they kiss.

"Get a room," Jean says, putting the phone on the table as he sits at one of the chairs.

"This whole apartment is our room," Eren says, whining as Armin slips from his grasp.

"Sorry," Armin says, wiping the drool from his chin. "Breakfast is ready."

"Armin's good with sausage," Eren says. Armin glares at him.

"Did you ask him before you offered?" Jean asks, smirking. Armin drops the plates of pancake and bacon onto the table with a clatter.

"Food," Armin says as he sits down. Eren has half of the food onto his own plate before Armin moves it out of his reach. "So, Jean."

"Yeah?"

"Feel like talking about it this morning?" Jean looks away and frowns, less than excited about rehashing the night before.

"Not really," Jean says.

"Too bad," Eren says, still chewing on a bite of pancake, pointing his fork at Jean as he talks. "You don't get to disrupt sex for a free night on the couch without saying why."

"You owe me a night on the couch, Jaeger."

"But you weren't getting any, plus I told you why," Eren says. Jean blinks, stunned by an intelligent argument coming from Eren, who is about to choke on pancakes. "So spill it," he says, his mouth full. Jean looks over to Armin, who is looking at Jean and smiling.

"... I got in a fight with my neighbor."

"Marco?" Eren asks, swallowing. Jean nods. "What'd you do?"

"Why do you automatically assume it's me that did something?"

"Because you're a sarcastic jackass," Eren says, "and he's got islanders in the Pacific that worship his compassion."

"It wasn't me," Jean says.

"Did you two fuck?" Eren asks.

"Eren," Armin says, frowning.

"What? I would." Both Jean and Armin stare at him. "If I weren't with Armin!"

"Jean?" Armin asks after kicking Eren under the table.

"No," Jean says.

"Is he gay?" Armin asks.

"Yeah," Eren says.

"You don't know that," Jean says, rolling his eyes.

"My gaydar is flawless."

"Your gaydar is World War 2 Russian surplus," Jean says. "You thought the biology teacher was gay."

"He was!" Eren says.

"He had six kids!" Jean says.

"It's called having a cover," Eren says. "Plus, Marco knows the stories behind flower names. Straight guys don't know that."

"I know about flower names," Armin says, confused. Eren chuckles.

"Being straight is not why your ass hurts right now." Armin glares.

"We didn't do anything," Jean says, stabbing at his pancake.

"Yet," Eren says with a grin. "You're thirsty as hell. You checked his crotch out like five times."

"What did you fight about, Jean?" Armin asks, giving Eren a warning glance. Jean stares at his plate, sawing his pancake with the edge of the fork.

"It doesn't matter."

"It does matter," Armin says, leaning forward. Jean looks back and forth at Eren and Armin, who are both waiting.

"Fine. Fuck it. He's a superhero." Eren opens his mouth, but Jean cuts him off. "I caught him on the roof. He was bleeding and got the hell beat out of him or something. We got in a fight when I woke up this morning, cause he kept acting like nothing had happened. He kept trying to act like I didn't know, that I'm that dumb or that brain damaged. Then he threw me out."

"You got in a fight over that?" Eren asks before Armin can swallow the bite he's chewing. Armin almost chokes on it as Jean looks over at Eren.

"Well, I thought about shoving him from a plane," Jean says, snarling. "But that's been done already."

"Maybe—" Armin starts to say.

"Was it hard getting your horse face up your ass that far? Pull it out before you hurt yourself. He's a cape. Capes have secret identities. People don't know them because they're secret, Jean. Did you expect him to verify his secret identity with you? I mean, fuck, do you know how easy my job would be if people just said, 'Oh, yeah, that's exactly what I'm doing, how'd you know?'"

"I cleaned up his mess and he lied to me."

"So what? I lie to you all the time." Eren says

"Can you maybe do it right now and say you think I'm right?"

"No. You need truth right now," Eren says. "Stop being a dumbass. You remember when I found out you were gay?"

"I remember when you went through the five layers of decoy folders I hid the porn in," Jean says. Eren shrugs.

"Whatever. You lied and said you're not gay. I didn't throw a temper tantrum and go sleep over at someone else's house, did I?"

"You said either I could admit to it or you'd Photoshop my head onto one of the pictures and spread it around school."

"And then I didn't bring it up again until you got comfortable with me knowing. So suck it up. He'll tell you if you need to know." Eren interrupts Jean right as he opens his mouth. "Fuck you, horse face, you don't need to know. You're his neighbor. He moved a couch for you. He owes you nothing. You owe _him_. So if there's any fucking thing in his world you can do, it's keep your mouth shut."

"Jean," Armin says as gently as he can. "Eren's—" Jean glares at Armin, because he knows Eren is right. It makes it worse that Eren is right. Eren, who thinks ketchup is a vegetable. Eren, who once believed that it didn't matter if you put your pants on inside-out. Eren, who once pissed himself because his pants were inside-out and he couldn't unzip them fast enough. Jean puts his fork down and leans back in his chair.

"I thought I'd killed him," Jean says. Eren rolls his eyes.

"Must be hard getting your fat head through a small doorway," Eren says. Jean sighs and leans his head back. "You're being a selfish prick."

"Fine," Jean says, standing up. "I'm selfish for being pissed. I'm selfish for taking care of his dying ass. I'm a selfish asshole for the things I can't unsee." Jean wants to head to the door, but he carries his plate to the kitchen. It's the least he can do for Armin, who follows him.

"You aren't wrong for how you feel," Armin says, taking the plate from Jean and setting it down. When Jean doesn't look at him, Armin tugs on Jean's shirt. 

"Even the village idiot just established that I am," Jean says.

"We've established his right to tell you when he's ready. Or if he's ever ready. That doesn't mean you can't be mad. You remember when we were kids and Eren fell out of the tree?"

"Yeah," Jean says, leaning back against the counter. "And we thought he'd snapped his neck." Armin nods.

"Well, I was scared. And then when I was waiting on him to wake up, I was mad. I was mad at him for being so dumb and careless. I was mad that he was putting me through hell because he had to go two branches higher. I knew it was wrong to blame him for an accident, but I was still mad. I was mad because I was scared. That's not wrong, Jean." Jean sighs and reaches for his phone. He frowns at the empty feeling in his hand. He balls his fingers into a fist.

"I don't know," Jean says.

"Yeah," Armin says with a nod. "I didn't either. Take the time you need to clear your head, Jean." Jean stares off with a frown.

"I should get to work," he says finally. Armin nods. They walk back into the living room, where Eren has turned on ESPN. The analyst panel is discussing the Surveyor's loss and its implications for the team's playoff chances. Eren looks at Jean and scratches his cheek. Armin gathers the plates from the table and takes them into the kitchen.

"Thanks again for letting me stay with you," Eren says. Jean shrugs.

"No big deal." Eren stands up.

"Wro— ... no, it _was_ a big deal." Jean watches the way Eren shifts on the couch, working out the words in his head. "Fuck, I don't want to get sappy."

"Are you trying to thank me?" Jean asks.

"No," Eren says. "I'm trying to say that you were there for me. Even though I'm a dumbass and even though you're a prick, you were there for me. It's what we do, Jean. You're like a brother to me."

"Is that why I want to kick your ass so much?" Jean asks.

"Yeah," Eren says, "and why I'll still be there no matter what." Jean nods. "And it's why I'll say what I think you need to hear. Like you do for me. Because I need it sometimes."

"Yeah," Jean says as he looks at the T.V. He watches as they break down the overtime goal that cost them the game. "It's what we do." Eren puts his hand on Jean's shoulder and shakes him.

"We're cool?" Eren asks. Jean nods.

"We're cool. I'll text you later," Jean says as he grabs the keys.

"Hey," Eren says as he follows Jean to the door. "If you guys talk again, tell him I said thanks for helping the other day."

"I will," Jean says, opening the door.

"Jean."

"Yeah?" When he turns around, Eren hugs him. Jean looks down at Eren, then wraps his arm around him.

"Thanks," Eren says. "For being there."

"Same," Jean says. 

 

* * *

 

When Jean stops by his apartment to change for work, Marco's door is closed and Jean's doorknob has a note taped to it:

_Please call me_  
_423-0141_

Jean pulls the note off and unlocks his door. The apartment has a foreign feeling. He walks to his bedroom and takes off his clothes, cringing again at the thought of sleeping on a couch where Eren and Armin had fucked hours before. When Jean tosses his clothes onto the pile he keeps in the corner, he notices the bloody shirt from the night before. Marco's blood on his skin is another feeling Jean has the urge to scrub away in his own shower.

Even after scouring the apartment in vain for his broken cellphone, Jean still has an hour to spare when he makes it to work. He regrets even bothering when he finds every line on his phone ringing and his email inbox filled with pages of support tickets. He sighs, picks up the phone, and gives up any hope of having a lunch break.

By 6:30, after a never-ending flood of tickets and phone calls that didn't stop until 4:55, Jean is still working his way through the last page of help requests, actively fighting the urge to drive his head through the computer monitor. He looks up when his mother knocks on the door, looking at Jean with a worried frown.

"Hi, Mom," he says, sighing and running his fingers through his hair.

"You haven't been answering your phone," she says. "Either of them."

"My cellphone broke and the office phone has been jammed all day." Jean finishes the email he's writing and looks up at her. "I'm sorry."

"As long as you're okay," she says, walking over to hug him. "Dinner tonight?" Jean nods.

"I can get us something when I'm done." She walks over and looks at him, leaning forward to get a better look at the dark rings under his eyes.

"Are you not sleeping well?" she asks. Jean shrugs.

"It's been a weird few days. I'm alright." She looks at him a bit longer. "I'm fine, Mom."

"Alright," she says. "I'll get started. Find me when you're back?" Jean nods. His mom gives him a hug before she leaves.

"I love you, Jeanbo." Jean cringes at the name.

"I love you too," he says as he opens the next email. 

It's another thirty minutes before Jean is finished, and he can't turn his computer off fast enough. Especially when the last email he gets for the day is from Eren. With no subject line, Jean opens it to find a coupon for laxative pills. _"In case you still have that head-shaped colon blockage."_ The only thing stopping Jean from sending back a picture of what Eren can do to himself is the company's search filter.

Jean grabs his jacket and heads for the elevator. Without his phone, the wait and ride down are disproportionately longer. Jean feels like he's lost touch with the outside world. The world could end and he wouldn't know. An asteroid, a zombie apocalypse, nuclear war, anything could happen while Jean stares at the awful painting of lilacs decorating the hallway wall. Without access to news or friends, he could die alone in a sad hallway.

With those thoughts, it's a comfort to see civilization as Jean passes the security guard in the lobby and walks outside. Moving cars in the last minutes of rush hour are a good sign that the world hasn't ended. Jean crosses the street to the sandwich shop. Waiting in line, mind unoccupied for the first time in hours and with no phone to distract him, Jean can't stop himself from thinking about Marco. About how the blood felt as his shirt stuck to his skin. About the panic of his balance shifting towards the stairs under Marco's weight. About the way Marco's hand felt against his when he fell asleep on the floor. Marco, who had the patience to reassemble his bed. Marco, who had the kindness to help Eren with his relationship, a man he'd never even met. Marco, whose smile still made him melt a little.

Marco, who wasn't smiling when he threw Jean out.

"Sir?" Jean looks to the waiting cashier.

"Sorry." Jean gives his order, chasing away one thought of Marco, only for another to take its place. He's still struggling for focus when he finds his mom cleaning the attorney's waiting room. As they walk to the staff room and sit at the table, Jean tries to keep his hands occupied by playing with his jacket zipper.

"Jean?" Jean looks up. "You're quiet tonight."

"I'm just tired," Jean says, unwrapping his sandwich while his mother sets out the napkins.

"It's early in the week to be tired." Jean shrugs. His mother unwraps her own sandwich as Jean takes a bite. "Is the new apartment okay?"

"Yeah," Jean says. His mother starts on her own sandwich. A quiet passes between them as his mother waits. Jean can feel the pressure of the silence, a weapon his mother used expertly in his childhood.

"It's just a problem with a friend," Jean finally says. He takes another bite. His mother waits for more, but Jean is satisfied he's given enough. He looks up and shrugs. "It's nothing."

"Jean," she says. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Noth—"

"Talk." Jean sighs. "I know you too well. Tell me what's wrong." Jean stares off as he searches for the right words. "Are you having feelings for Eren again?" Jean blinks.

"What? No! God, no!"

"Then tell me what's really wrong or I'll keep guessing, and it just gets worse from here."

"That's... evil," Jean says, sauce from his sandwich dripping onto his finger.

"Don't fight it, Jean," his mom says with a grin. "You know I'm too good." Jean sighs and puts the sandwich down, cleaning his finger off.

"Fine. Let's say I have this friend." His mother tilts her head. "It's not me, it's a real person that exists. So my friend has something he didn't want me to find out about, but I found out at a really intense and bad time. I helped him out, but now he's acting like the thing he doesn't want me to know isn't actually a thing. I went out of my way for him, and when I tried to at least get him to admit it, we got into a fight about it." Jean's mom nods.

"This thing," she says. "Is it something you're allowed to know?"

"That's a moot point, I already know."

"Is he in danger?"

"He's..." Jean bites his lips as he tries to think of a way to explain it without explaining it. "That's irrelevant." She raises an eyebrow. Jean holds firm.

"Is it something illegal?"

"No." One of the few times Jean has ever lied to his mother, and he immediately breaks inside. "It's... not bad. Let's say he's an illegal immigrant because he got denied his visa once he was already here. It's something illegal, but not because he's done something bad."

" _Is_ he an illegal immigrant?"

"No," Jean says. She sighs. "We could talk about witness protection just the same."

"Is he in witness protection?"

"No," Jean says. She sighs again. "I can't tell you, Mom."

"I know," she says. "So it isn't something you're legally required to not know."

"No. I mean, I guess it's illegal to not report his illegal activity, but..." Jean shrugs. "Whatever."

"So the bigger issue is that he _personally_ doesn't want you to know."

"Right, but I do know."

"You know, but he doesn't want you to know. He's acting like you don't know because he wants things to be the same, but you feel you have a right to know because of something that happened."

"Yeah. Something that I became significantly involved in, so acting like I don't know isn't an option." Jean's mom nods and taps her finger against her cup.

"This reminds me of something. A very close friend of mine had a son who was gay."

"Mom..."

"Listen to me, Jean. She knew her son was gay, and her son knew that she knew. She wanted to tell him she knew and that it didn't matter to her, that she loved him all the same. But she also knew that he didn't want her to know. He was struggling with the feelings, particularly because of his father's opinions about such things."

"Can we not go there?" She ignores him.

"He wanted his father to approve of him, but he also wasn't happy denying who he was. My friend could have sat her son down and confronted him with the situation, but she knew that would embarrass him. She wanted more than anything for her son to be happy with himself, with his family, and with his life. So even though it was a hard thing to do at times, she kept quiet and hoped for the best, because at the end of the day she knew that confronting him would only make it that much worse."

"Are you done?" Jean asks. She nods. "Very subtle."

"I was talking about Eren." Jean looks down, frowning. It takes him a few seconds.

"Wait... no, you weren't," he says. His mother grins.

"You're right, I wasn't. But I could have been. My point, Jean, is that sometimes you know it's not the best thing, and sometimes you know it's not the fair thing, but you do it anyways. When someone holds a part of themselves back, it's because they aren't ready. You can't force them to be. All you can do is be supportive in the meantime and to be there when they need you. And when it's time, it will happen. And if it's never time, then you were there just in case. That's what being a friend is, and that's what being a mother is." Jean looks at his soggy sandwich.

"Yeah," he says. "Thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome, Jean." She reaches out to hold his hand. Jean squeezes it back.

"This is good advice for when I'm a mother too." She smiles and pulls her hand away to smacks Jean's.

"Horrible child," she says. Jean grins and takes a bite of his sandwich. "I love you, Jean."

"Love you too, Mom." 

 

* * *

 

 By the time Jean has helped his mom finish cleaning the office and drives home, it's dark outside. Jean tries to find a radio station to listen to on the drive home, but only finds commercials. The cord to hook his phone into the stereo hangs limp from the console.

Jean feels a weight in his stomach as he walks up the apartment stairs. He needs to talk to Marco, but doesn't know if he has it in him. The feeling gets worse with each step, a physical impression of that night. The shock, the exhaustion, the fear. The blood, the glaze in Marco's eyes.

_“Leave me here, Jean.”_

Jean stops on the flight below his floor. He clutches his keys, tempted to turn around and go to Eren's, or to his mom's, or to anywhere other than his apartment. Jean doesn't know if it's worse that Marco might be home or might not be home. He doesn't know if it's worse that Marco might want to talk or might not want to talk. Worst of all, Jean doesn't know if Marco is sorry or angry. The spectrum of all that could be is a few stairs away.

Jean sighs. He needs sleep. He needs his laptop.

_“Tell me what to do,” he says._  
  
“Leave me here,” Marco says, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall.  
  
“Dammit, Marco!” Marco’s eyes open, looking into Jean’s. Jean stares back, breathing hard. The concrete is collapsing underneath him, the darkness of the stairwell smothering him from all sides.

Jean shakes his head and takes the last few steps. When Jean turns the corner, he finds Marco sitting on the floor in front of Jean's door. He has a pizza and a paper bag, his back against wall, his head turned to look at Jean. Jean stares back.

"Please," Marco says, his voice sad and soft. "Can we talk?"


End file.
